


If Tomorrow Never Comes

by Maeerin



Category: 24 (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, M/M, Mind Palace, The Empty Hearse AU, Torture, interrogatons, more like The Hounds of Baskerville mind palace, you don't need to watch/know 24 in order to read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3184379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The longest day of Sherlock and John's life begins at 10 AM, before they could even have breakfast. What will happen before tomorrow?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 10 AM - 5 PM

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MajorTrouble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/gifts).



> This is a long overdue gift for Major-Trouble on tumblr (MajorTrouble on ao3) for the Exchangelock "What If" Prompt. It was originally called What A Difference A Day Makes, which I'll delete once this is finished. I hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> CTU and JacK Bauer do not belong to me, they belong to Fox and Joel Surnow. 
> 
> I did change some things from the original, so another big thanks to my sister for editing this! And to Holmesianpose (bittergreens) for editing the first chapter back in September. Thank you both!! 
> 
> This is in American Time Scale.
> 
> Let the longest day of Sherlock and John's lives begin!

**CHAPTER 1: The following takes place between 10:00 AM and 5:00 PM**

 

November 5th, 2014

A loud clatter snapped Sherlock awake; his eyes squinted against the morning sun streaming onto his face. A mutter of cursing followed the crash. Sherlock glanced at the empty spot next to him and instantly knew it was John making the commotion.

Stretching and putting on his dressing gown, Sherlock walked lazily to the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the remains of an omelet scattered across the floor.

“You tried to flip it,” he realized. John looked up and lightly glared at him, but the expression of utter fondness overpowered it, and he was trying to hide a smirk.

“Clearly I won’t be a high class chef,” John replied. Sherlock stepped forward and pulled his lover into an embrace. John was startled, but after a second he wrapped his arms around the taller man, tightening the embrace.

“What was that for?” John asked as he leaned away.

Sherlock shrugged. “Why were you making an omelet?”

This time John shrugged and turned his face away, but Sherlock caught the rising blush on the man’s cheeks and smirked.

“Sentiment,” the detective claimed.

John laughed lightly. “Yeah.”

John’s phone buzzed against the countertop. John only took a glance before sighing, his face dropping with disappointment.

“I have to go. The surgery needs me.”

Sherlock sighed, biting the urge to complain. John slipped past him and within moments he was dressed.

“I wish I had time to shower,” he muttered as he put his shoes on and glanced at his watch.

Sherlock went towards him and crowded him against the wall.

“Sherlock, what are you—?”

Sherlock shushed John by placing his lips against his, sucking gently and humming with pleasure as he did.

John kissed him back thoroughly for a few moments before pushing him gently away enough to see his face.

“I have to go. It’s only a short shift,” John assured with a soft smile.

Sherlock huffed with annoyance and walked to the window. John followed him and placed his hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, rubbing affectionately.

“When I get back, I’ll take you to Angelo’s. We have reservations.”

“Why? What for?”

“You’ll see. Spend the day trying to guess. Trust me, this day will go by fast.”

John stood on his toes and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. John stayed for a few moments before stepping back and heading to the door.

“I’ll see you soon, love,” he said and after watching Sherlock blush, he left.

Sherlock stayed by the window, watching his lover leave until he was out of sight. Sherlock sighed heavily and glanced at his watch.

10:20 AM

_This was going to be a boring day._

*                        *                        *

Only twenty minutes passed when the day became less boring, and more insufferable. A black car pulled up to their flat, and an unmistakable figure emerged. Sherlock sighed with annoyance and sat heavily in his chair as he waited for the visitor.

Mycroft stepped into the living room, and it took him longer than usual to meet his brother’s eye—just a second of hesitation. Something was wrong.

“What is it this time?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft raised an eyebrow; a try to pretend he didn’t know what his brother was talking about, but both knew it was just an ill attempt.

Mycroft sat in John’s chair, and didn’t bother commenting on mundane observations or even making idle chitchat, as he went straight to the point. “There’s going to be a terrorist attack against Parliament,” Mycroft said, straight to the point. “We had an agent give his life for this information, but we don’t know exactly who is involved. MI6 is already working—.”

“Then why do you need me?” Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft sighed. “My people have picked up on something that suggests a rat has made it’s way into MI6, and is either exchanging information for both sides or working entirely on behalf of the terrorist group.”

“A rat? Interesting. Though you’re further capable of—.”

“There’s one more thing, before you make up your mind, that you should hear.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, allowing Mycroft to continue.

“MI6 had uncovered evidence this morning about a suspect—the only evidence we had managed to even find—and they were going to pick him up before I managed to delay them with…paperwork. I have people working on finding anything that would suggest this evidence to be faulty, but others are getting impatient, which is why I came here.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Please. Why would I—.”

“Not you.” Mycroft said.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Who then?”

Mycroft inhaled softly before responding. “John Watson.”

Sherlock stared at him. It was nearly a full two minutes before he responded.

“There must be an explanation,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

Mycroft nodded. “That’s what I thought. But the evidence is very clear of whom it’s suggesting, and it’s all very strong.”

Sherlock stood up and began pacing the room. “What kind of evidence?”

Mycroft pulled out a manila folder and opened it. “Surveillance footage of him contacting known assailants of terrorism—”

“Who?”

Mycroft handed Sherlock the folder. “John’s identified with Bradley Stan, an ex-American intelligence agent currently wanted for treason, terrorism, and murder. They’re photographed together on numerous occasions.”

Sherlock took the photos and looked over them. The date marked various days in the past couple of months, days Sherlock couldn’t quite remember.

“There must be an explanation,” Sherlock repeated, which sparked concern from Mycroft. “I would have picked up on it, especially if he was trying to hide something.”

“Well I’m sure there is. But you have to find it. I’ll bring you to MI6 where you can work efficiently with my team—.”

“I can do it on my own—.”

“Unfortunately for you Sherlock, that is out of my hands. CTU, or Counter-Terrorist Unit of the States have intervened, as Stan in a wanted man by the U.S. They’re trained in this Sherlock, and are willing to work with you and MI6. Go and get dress. I’ll wait in the car.”

Mycroft left, leaving Sherlock holding the incriminating photographs. He clenched his fist and inhaled deeply. John was no way involved in this. After all this time, he would not lie to Sherlock. There must be an explanation. There has to be.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock sauntered into the MI6 building, and scanned the room. Various computers were set up and on one big screen was all the information about John Watson. Sherlock cringed inwardly at the possibility of John being what the evidence suggested, and continued following Mycroft.

A young woman came up to them, and Mycroft introduced her as they walked into a conference room, where a set of computers was laid out, ready for use.

“This is Mary Morstan. She’s a computer analyst and intelligence agent, head of her department from CTU. She’ll be the lead representative here, until her boss arrives.”

Sherlock eyed her carefully. _Married, two years. No children. Worked at CTU for five years, is a romantic, cat-lover, plastic surgery: rhinoplasty; puzzle enthusiast, liar, and linguist, one sister, clever, cunning…_

“What kind of evidence are we looking at?” Sherlock asked.

“Emails, surveillance, phone records—,” Mary began.

“Phone records? To who?”

“To a payphone,” she responded. “We have surveillance footage of Stan using the phone, and the records show Watson’s cell number, and vice versa.”

“Is there anyone else besides Stan and Jo—Watson?”

Mary shook her head. “All we know is that there will be an attack against Parliament, and that Stan is involved. The evidence against Watson suggest he is as well but—.”

“It seems rather specific.”

Mary nodded. “Exactly.”

A woman stepped beside Mycroft, Sherlock recognizing her as Anthea.

“Anthea will be tracking John’s phone, granted he still has the tracker,” Mycroft spoke somewhat quietly.

Sherlock nodded discreetly. “He does.”

Mary cleared her throat. “Good. Then we’ll know where he is if we have to pick him up. We decided not to do so, to collect more evidence or anything contradictory, and to make sure Stan doesn’t know we’re onto him.”

“Is Stan the mastermind?” Sherlock asked.

“From what it appears so, yes. He’s the only one contacting Watson, but we’re not sure what he wants with him. There’s nothing in either of their past that suggests they’ve met.”

“I’ll look into it,” Sherlock said dismissively as he sat at the computers. Mary nodded with gratitude, accepting he was done being informed at the moment.

“Let me know if you find something.” She left, and Anthea followed, leaving the Holmes’ brothers alone.

“Have you contacted John?” Mycroft asked in a concerned whisper.

Sherlock shook his head. “If I did, he’d want to come in and explain it’s a misunderstanding. But…”

“If he really is part of this, he’d might run off,” Mycroft suggested. Sherlock only nodded, stomping down the unexplainable doubt lurking in the back of his head—he was even ashamed at himself for having thought of them, so he focused on the computer screen, getting to work.

Several minutes passed as Sherlock went through various document and reports dating all the way back to John’s university days. He clicked link after link, but came up with either nothing or confidential reports his visitor code couldn’t access. After several defeated tries, he reached for the phone and called Mary in. She came without question, a little too keen to help.

“I need to access this file but my visitor code doesn’t allow it.” Sherlock said, aggravated.

Mary stepped forward and punched in her code; Sherlock caught it and remembered it, for later use.

2472

The documents opened on the screen, and Sherlock scanned them, immediately finding the connection.

“John met Stan back in Kandahar, where Stan was part of a team of agents. They were attacked, and then were taken to the hospital where John was located. That’s the connection.”

“That’s good. How’d you find the document that fast?”

“It was buried under John’s hospital reports when he was in the army. They could easily be dismissed because they aren’t sorted by patient name, but by date.”

“Well there we go. I’ll let the others know, and Mycroft. Can you send it to my screen and I’ll pull it up on the main one?”

Sherlock did so as she left, and then went looking through John’s emails. The ones from Stan were vague, as if there was a secret message encrypted in them, and they were always sent out in the middle of the night. John never responded to any of them.

 _There must be something else,_ Sherlock thought. _Something bigger…_

Minutes ticked by, until an hour had passed before Mary came back.

“Watson received another email, sent five minutes ago,” Mary reported.

“Can you trace to where it came from?”

“I have someone working on it now,” Mary said as she left and headed back to the main room where everyone was looking at the screen. Sherlock followed her and read the email up on the screen.

**Save Saint John Smith. Now Remember.**

Sherlock scanned the email, confusion setting in.

“Is that where they’re meeting?” Mary asked.

“Could be, that’s a concert hall, near Parliament. It’s too specific and close to the target to be dismissed. But they wouldn’t be meeting around a crowd in broad daylight.” Sherlock provided. “Why would they…

He looked at the email closely, and then gasped. “It’s a skip code!”

“What?” A voice from behind them snapped. Sherlock ignored him.

“Save. John. Now.” Sherlock read. “John’s not part of this, he’s being used.”

“But all the evidence points to John.” Mary exclaimed.

“What evidence?” Sherlock breathed. “The emails are vague, and only discussing them meeting. John may know what’s going on. I need to find him.”

“He didn’t tell you anything.” The man behind him pointed out.

Sherlock turned around and glared at him. “And you are?”

“Lee Van Der Ross.”

Sherlock only glanced at him and then looked back at the screen. “John has to tell me now, and if we save him in time—.”

“It could be a decoy. I’m not sending my men in just for an email that’s meant for the suspect,” Lee said.

“You’re men?” Sherlock looked back at Lee.

“I’m the head of field agents for CTU. If you want a team to go out there, you have to go through me.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with disbelief and then back to the screen.

“Whoever sent that email knows we’re onto them. It’s clearly meant for our eyes.”

“Exactly! They’ll expect us to make a move.” Lee sighed. “But, I am here as being asked to by your brother, so I’ll follow his orders.” He looked at Mycroft, and then Sherlock did. Mycroft looked at the both of them, and then sighed.

“Create a border but no one attacks until Sherlock has a sighting of John, and gives a signal.”

Lee sighed but began speaking into his radio; Sherlock looked at his brother, his eyebrows drawn in confusion.

“You have to be careful Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “John could be—.”

“He’s not. I’ll prove it.”

Mycroft met his gaze steadily and then nodded.

Sherlock looked at him briefly, and then turned on his heel, grabbed his coat, and left, ahead of the field agents.

Sherlock sprinted outside and looked around. Saint John Smith Square was the most likely area, but it was nearly twenty minutes away. Sherlock glanced at his watch.

12:32 PM

He grimaced and ran into the street just as a motorcyclist stopped in front him. He stopped in his tracks and held his hand out just as it stopped.

 _Perfect_.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just as twenty minutes passed, Sherlock sped down the street, the concert hall now within view. He couldn’t see anything, except a pile of what appeared to be wood on the side of the building, in the yard.

Within a couple of minutes, he was at the entrance. The pile of wood was much larger, and already burning on the edges. His phone buzzed in his coat, and he pulled it out as he stared at the fire.

**John sure is a guy!**

Sherlock stared at the text, then looked back at the flames.

“Oh my god!”

Sherlock rushed forward, but his run was cut off when a sudden explosion erupted ahead of him. He was thrown back, and hit his head against the ground hard, succumbing him into darkness.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anthea walked down the hall to the conference room where Sherlock’s work was set up. She slipped inside, and waited until Mycroft was finished with a call before informing him.

“The team is in place, but they lost sight of Sherlock. There was an explosion in the yard, but are awaiting your orders, sir.”

Mycroft sighed. “Don’t send them in until they have sight of Sherlock. But notify New Scotland Yard of the explosion.”

“Yes sir.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes. He was face down in the grass, the smell of smoke stinging his lungs. It didn’t feel like much time had slipped away while he was unconsciously, and that thought was proven as the flames in front of him from the explosion were obviously just starting to rise.

He struggled as he got up and looked around. People were running away; the bonfire he was running towards was quickly ablaze, burning fast and reaching the height of the concert hall.

Sherlock rushed forward on unsteady feet and pushed through the people running towards him. He didn’t see anyone suspicious lurking by and headed straight to the fire. A pair of feet was visible under the rubble and without a second thought; he reached forward and pulled them out.

The man’s face was covered with soot and blood, but he was alive and aware, and unmistakably John.

“John!”

Sherlock ran his hands over John’s body, checking for injuries, and saw blood dripping lightly from his head.

“John you’re bleeding—” Sherlock said, but was gently pushed away by the John.

“I’m fine. It’s just a cut,” John rasped, his eyes wide as he stared at Sherlock.

“John, MI6 is looking for you—.”

John stood up roughly and led Sherlock away from the fire and emergency responders. “I can’t explain it right now. I’m doing something—.”

“Look John, whatever it is let me help—.”

“No!” John snapped, and glanced around.

Sherlock’s face fell. “John, you’re not the person to cause harm to others. Why would you associate with terrorists—?”

“There’s going to be anther attack.” John whispered, and then looked around again. “I can’t say anything more. Please, leave,” he insisted in a low voice.

Sherlock’s face creased with confusion. “Come with me John—.”

“I can’t.” John said, his eyes pleading. “Just—look at Sumatra Road. That’s all I’m allowed to say. Now go.”

When Sherlock didn’t leave, John pushed him away. “Go! GO!”

Sherlock looked at him, and the hurt in his eyes was too much to bear, so John avoided his eyes.

“When this is over, I…I might not come back,” he whispered.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice trembled, but he couldn’t find himself to control it.

“Just go.”

Sherlock blinked and inhaled deeply. After a pause, he took a step back and glared at John.

“If this meant anything to you, tell me now, and I’ll come with you, I’ll help you—.”

John stared at Sherlock, and looked passed him. Sherlock didn’t look behind him, but whatever—or whomever John saw—was enough to mask John’s face with near perfect impassiveness. It mirrored his own expression, and he cringed, suddenly feeling uneasy—probably what many people felt when he looked at them that way. However he rarely looked at John like that, and whenever he did it was just a defense mechanism, nothing to be taken as a personal attitude towards John. But this expression coming from John, well, it was unnerving, and definitely didn’t belong on the doctor’s usually kind face.

John’s eyes hardened. “You meant nothing to me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Sherlock said firmly immediately. “Prove it.”

John looked conflicted for a moment, and then suddenly he flicked a pocketknife open and flung his arm. The blade swiped cleanly across Sherlock’s cheek—shallow, but already bleeding. Sherlock stepped back, and glanced up at John. He saw a flicker of regret but then it was gone.

Sherlock met his gaze, shocked. John glared at him and leaned closer.

“Leave.” he said hoarsely. Sherlock stumbled away, looking at him one more time, before running off, fighting off the urge to look back, but he didn’t.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock arrived back at the investigation building. He walked straight to his conference room, ignoring Mary’s comment.

“You sure took your time. You left nearly an hour ago. The location was a dead end?”

Sherlock went into the conference room and slumped down. Mycroft walked in, and immediately read his behavior.

“What did John have to say?” He asked calmly, eyeing Sherlock’s cut with unusual worry.

Sherlock sighed and stood back up, looking at the evidence pinned to the board.

“He’s not part of this,” Sherlock claimed. “He was acting…odd. He kept looking around and was antsy. They must have been watching him, which meant he was forced to get rid of me.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He said to check Sumatra Road, and that there’s going to be another attack. He didn’t say why or where.”

“I’ll have someone look into it.”

Sherlock only nodded.

“You should get that cut checked.” Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock ignore him. “Is the team still there? Did they see anything?”

“They lost sight of you when the explosion blocked their view. They’re scouting the area now.”

Sherlock nodded and focused on the computer screen just as Mary walked in, out of breath.

“I managed to decrypt the email John got about Saint John Smith Square, and I got the IP address.”

Sherlock stared at her. “Where?”

“This building.”

The two brothers stared at her with disbelief. Sherlock straightened up. “Show me.”

*            *            *

Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk as Mary worked beside him, typing at record speed on her laptop and occasionally murmuring information back and forth to those around her.

Anthea stood behind them, but kept her gaze on her phone. Mycroft was standing beside her, at ease and not showing any impatience like his brother.

“Will you stop tapping Sherlock, they’ll find which computer sent the email just as fast,” he said as he gazed at his watch.

“We don’t have all day,” snapped Sherlock as he glanced at his watch. 2:04 PM.

He stood up and straightened out his wrinkled clothing. “I’m going to go look into that…” He met Mycroft’s eye and gave him a knowing look. Mycroft looked at him for only a second before looking back to his phone.

“Yes you go do that,” he muttered.

Sherlock walked away and headed to his conference room. Once there, he sat down at the table, and signed in with his temporary log in to the system. He typed fast and thorough, scanning words and clicking links until he found what he was looking for.

**Counter-Terrorist Unit Team Attacked in Kandahar (2004).**

The list only contained five people, two of which Sherlock was familiar with.

**Bradley Stan**

**Sebastian Moran**

**Tony O’Brian**

**Jack Bauer**

**Lee Van der Ross**

Sherlock searched two of their statuses.

**Moran: Alive; Head Director at the Counter-Terrorist Unit in Washington, D.C. Living Relatives: 1 daughter, Kim Moran.**

**O’Brian: Deceased (April 2 nd, 2004); killed in action.**

**Bauer: Missing in action since 2004; wanted for treason.**

**Van der Ross: Active. Was the advisor of the mission; contacted the team from headquarters. Head of Field Agents at CTU.**

Just as he was about to inform his brother, the door opened, and Mycroft walked in.

“What is it?” his brother asked asked. “Anything to do with the rat?” he whispered.

Sherlock stared at him. “You’re on top of things,” he asserted. Mycroft didn’t respond, and simply raised an eyebrow, indicating his brother to get on with it.

“Lee Van der Ross, your head of field ops, was the advisor of Stan’s team in Kandahar, but the mission was directed from a different branch in government. Do you have access to it?”

“Let me see.” Mycroft bent over the computer and began typing in various codes and going through different logins. He typed in his code, but it was declined. Mycroft huffed with surprise and aggravation, and tried again. Denied.

Suddenly, the computer screens flickered once, and then again. Sherlock looked at his screen but before he could even press his hands on the keyboard, the screen went black.

“What’s going on—”

The door barged opened and Mary stormed in. “Someone hacked into our system and shut down everything. We have to reboot, which may take about an hour.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Mycroft demanded.

“Someone must have sold their soul to Satan for skills like that,” she muttered. Mycroft didn’t respond to the joke, but Sherlock smirked.

“Do you have any kind of back up system?” Sherlock asked.

“We’re working on it,” Mary explained exasperatingly. “But it’ll take some time.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock looked through the files laid out over the table. The computer system was still being rebooted, so he had to go through the hard copies, which was taking a hell of a lot longer. Mycroft had left ten minutes ago to deal with other business, but Anthea stayed behind and helped via her phone.

Mary notified her whenever she had updates about the system through the phone, which Anthea informed Sherlock whilst keeping her focus on her precious device. Sherlock was glad she and Mary weren’t getting in the way.

Anthea’s phone beeped, and she read it swiftly, reading it aloud as she did so. “Mary has managed to reboot part of the system. It’ll take another half hour or so to get the other systems back on, but she’ll continue working on sourcing the IP address to the correct monitor and user.”

Sherlock hummed in response and continued looking through the papers. Nothing suggested the connections between Moran and O’Brian’s disappearance and death. It could be a coincidence, nothing more. He needed to speak to Lee when he got back, he was the only one not caught up in this.

The door opened and Mary stepped in, her face serious and withdrawn.

“Sherlock?”

“What?” he asked absentmindedly.

“I found the person who sent the email.”

Sherlock shot his head up and met her gaze. Anthea paused typing and looked up too. Sherlock waited, but Mary remained quiet. Two men in black suits and clearly part of the security of the building stepped into the room.

“Who was it Mary?” Sherlock asked.

“A person named Anthea Smith.”

Sherlock turned to Anthea, who had gone just slightly paler and was furrowing her eyebrows. The men stepped towards her and cuffed her before she could protest a complete sentence.

“Anthea Smith, you are under arrest. We’re taking you to interrogation where you’ll be questioned.” They’re speech drifted off as they left the room. Mary stayed behind, and looked at Sherlock.

“What are you—I don’t know what—.”

The detective stared, taken aback, as Anthea was led away. He needed to call Mycroft.

He turned to Mary. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Positive. I checked twice.”

“It doesn’t make any sense—.”

“But it does. She’s your brother’s right-hand. This thing must go deep in the government then, don’t you think?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, and pulled out his phone. He knew he needed Mycroft to come back, before any permanent damage was done. Mary spoke behind him, her voice hesitant.

“I think Anthea could be being framed, now that I think about it. It does seem rather easy, finding evidence against her. First Watson, then her. The system malfunction was sudden and unexplained, but it wasn’t the entire system that stopped working. In the back we have these systems that are temporary set up here, but they stay on a separate grid, and continue working so they can keep our information and files blocked by a firewall so it can’t be hacked into. We have several walls blocking certain files. When the system crashed, they would still be working. There was a recent log in, with her name, but she rarely left your sight.”

“No…but she’s especially trained to do anything on that phone. I don’t doubt that’s what she used to hack into the remaining system. Did you see what she was working on, before she got arrested?”

“Yeah, it was something to do with Sumatra Road.”

Sherlock perked up. He pondered for a long moment, before standing up and gathering his coat. “Do you have privileges outside the building?”

“Yes.”

He smirked. “Fancy a trip?”

*            *            *

“Where are we going?” Mary called after Sherlock. They had been walking for a while now, and had managed to refrain from questioning him for an impressive time.

“Mr. Shillcott. He has an obsessive liking to trains.”

“Trains?”

“You know, large compartments all lined up on wheels—.”

“I know what trains are. I’m not an idiot.”

Sherlock smirked, and led her to a small house. After one quick knock on the door, a short young man answered it.

“Oh hello. Come in.”

“Hi.” Mary greeted rather cheerfully. Sherlock bit back an annoyed groan.

“What do you want to look at? Surveillance? Models?” Shillcott asked. Mary looked around the overly thematic room and whispered to Sherlock, “Why are we here?”

“Mr. Shillcott works on the Tube, on the District Line,” Sherlock answered her. He looked back to Shillcott. “I need surveillance footage, the one you called about.”

Shillcott stared at him. “I told you about that a couple of months ago…”

“Yes, well, now I’m getting to it.”

“All right…” The man sat at his computer and pulled up footage of the Underground.

“Here we have a man enter the car—.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Car?”

“Yes car, not carriages.” Shillcott replied. “We have a man enter, no one else around, and then when the train comes back to the only station between these two, no one gets out.”

“Where did he go?” Mary asked.

Sherlock looked at the screen, and replayed it. He stood there for several moments, thinking.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven._

_One two, three, four, five, six._

_Oh!_

“The man didn’t disappear, the whole compartment did!”

“What? But where did it go?”

“Somewhere along the tracks.” Sherlock paused. “Does Sumatra Road run through there?”

Mary looked closer at the screen. “Hang on, isn’t that Watson?”

Sherlock leaned closer, and then groaned. _No!_

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “It is…what date is this?”

“Um, September 28th.”

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. _Where was John that day? Oh why don’t I remember things like this. That day…was a Sunday. John didn’t work, but went out for drinks…or was it a date night—no! The date was Saturday. Sunday we had a lie in, as John put it. He only went out for an hour, around…_

_7 PM._

Sherlock glanced at the clock on the footage. _7:22 PM_

Sherlock sighed and stepped back. Mary looked up at him. “That’s not John. You know it isn’t.”

Sherlock exhaled softly. “He left at the same time. I don’t remember how long he was gone for…”

Mary looked at the screen and pointed at the figure. “It’s not him. Look at him. He just has the same face. Does John have a brother?”

“No.”

“Okay…” Mary continued mumbling obscure possibilities, but Sherlock was conflicted now. He was becoming less and less convinced that John was not involved in this, and the footage looked more like him than the security images. Sherlock closed his eyes recalled the past few months, yet nothing still seemed unordinary. He repeated the scene at the bonfire—John was clearly agitated, but he was persuasive, and wouldn’t stop trying, as if…as if he wanted Sherlock to notice something but stayed away from him at the same time.

_“I can’t! Just—look at Sumatra Road. That’s all I’m allowed to say. Now go.”_

_All I’m allowed to say…_

_Allowed—!_

Sherlock snapped his eyes opened and leaned forward to the screen, examining John’s figure. _‘Allowed’…John must have carefully chosen that word, convinced Sherlock would have noticed it. But it took him far too long…_

John’s face in the screen was identical; is hands the same size in proportion. His hair styled the same; his clothes were his, his shoes, even his gait was—

Sherlock looked closer at the footage. “Replay it.” He insisted.

Shillcott did so, and Sherlock observed the figure’s gait. It wasn’t like John’s at all. The doppelganger wasn’t even trying to fool anyone, just taking the face for granted.

“It’s not John,” Sherlock sighed, relieved.

“See, I told you the evidence is right there.” Mary said with a soft smile.

“Show me Sumatra road.” Sherlock directed at Shillcott. The man looked up, puzzled.

“There aren’t any undergrounds down—wait there is!” He rummaged through some maps on his desk and pulled out one. “Sumatra Road. There was one being built, but it got tied up in legal disputes so it was unfinished.”

“Are there security cameras?”

“Outside. I don’t think there are any down below.”

“Can you access any from the outside?”

Shillcott shook his head. “I’m only allowed the Underground ones.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and turned around. “Thank you for your time.” He called back absently. Mary quickly followed him into the hallway.

“Where are we going now?”

“Back to MI6. I need you to pull up security footage of Sumatra Road. That’s where the missing compartment went, and where the man went. What time is it?”

“Um, almost 4.”

“We may have to go down there. But first, we need to see the footage.”

“Hang on.” Mary stopped in the doorway and pulled out her phone. “If I can get a Wifi signal, I can look up the security footage without having to go back to headquarters.”

Sherlock peered at her. “You mean hack?”

Mary smirked. “Just give me five minutes.”

Sherlock and Mary entered a nearby pub, and she immediately got to work. Within five minutes, she chirped with excitement.

“Got it.”

“Let me see.”

Sherlock looked at the footage, crowds of people moving passed the entrance and a few going down the stairs. A figure drew his attention, and he looked closer.

“What is it?” Mary asked, noticing Sherlock’s eyes widening.

“It’s John,” he breathed.

“You sure?”

“Positive this time. He’s going to Sumatra Road.”

“Why would he be doing that?”

“Because he told me that’s where to check,” Sherlock said with annoyance. “Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later, Sherlock and Mary headed down the stairs to the Underground and walked through the entrance. Mary was having trouble keeping up, but wasn’t protesting. She followed Sherlock until he came to a pause outside a gated passageway.

“Um, are we even allowed to go in there?”

“What do you think?” Sherlock called over his shoulder, and then opened the entrance. He sneaked in, and she closely followed, closing the gate behind her. They continued all the way down until they came to a platform.

Sherlock huffed with frustration and looked around. He pulled out a flashlight and jumped down onto the tracks.

“Whoa what are you doing?” Mary asked, still on the platform.

“The seventh car should be here, but it clearly isn’t.” he said impatiently.

“So where will it be?”

“Should be down the tracks,” Sherlock said, and then he headed down them. Mary quickly hopped down and followed him, slowing her pace as she watched were she stepped.

“If there’s a bomb down here, shouldn’t we call the police?”

“No time,” Sherlock murmured.

Mary scoffed and pulled out her phone, but then sighed heavily. She quickened her pace and followed Sherlock through the tunnel.

“So what are you going to do if we find a bomb?” She asked.

“I haven’t planned that far yet—.” Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his flashlight catching on something. He looked up and inhaled sharply. Mary followed his gaze and then gasped, much louder.

Rows of explosives were taped to the top of the tunnel, going down the way they came and leading further into the tunnel.

Sherlock looked back ahead and saw the door to the abandoned carriage. He walked slowly to it, Mary following, and then opened it without a problem. He stepped in, scanning the room swiftly before he was greeted with a punch in the face. He crumbled to the floor and groaned. Mary gasped and backed away.

Sherlock grabbed his flashlight and pointed it at the intruder. They both gasped.

“John?”

“Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here?” John asked as he scrambled to stand up.

“Checking out Sumatra Road, like you said!” Sherlock pointed out. “There are explosives all over the tunnel. There must be something here…some kind of trigger.” Sherlock stood up and began looking around. John stared at him, stunned, and then looked at Mary. His eyes widened a bit, and then he stood up, still looking at her.

“And you are?” He asked as if it didn’t even matter.

“Mary,” she introduced herself. “I just tagged along.”

John nodded and then looked back to Sherlock.

“Sherlock you need to leave,” he said.

Sherlock continued looking around the compartment. “Why?” He asked absently.

John gaped at him. “There’s a bomb here in case you’ve failed to notice.”

“Well help me look for it.” Sherlock continued looking around, and then paused, and looked intently on something remotely faint along the wall. He followed it to one of the seats, and then lifted the cushion up to reveal what was underneath.

Mary gasped. John inhaled sharply but remained standing in the corner. Sherlock’s eyes widened and lifted another cushion up. He looked up to John and Mary.

“The whole compartment is the bomb,” he declared. He stood up and took a step forward, only to have his attention brought to the ground. He knelt down and lifted the center tile open.

“Oh my…” Mary breathed. Sherlock and John stared at the space in the floor. A larger bomb rested there, a timer on its side timed for five minutes.

“We need bomb disposal.” Mary stated.

Sherlock stepped towards John. “Did anyone tell you when they were going to detonate it?” He whispered.

John avoided his eyes. “They didn’t.”

“John,” Sherlock said sternly. “I don’t quite understand your involvement, but you are involved, so tell me!”

“This evening, at five!” John shouted back, squeezing his eyes shut briefly. He lowered his gaze, avoiding Sherlock’s piercing eyes.

Sherlock glanced at his watch. 4:42.

“We have time. We need to—”

“Stop talking now.” John interrupted, and then looked up at Sherlock, his eyes sterner than they were before.

“John?” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. _Something’s not right._

John smirked, and then in a swift movement, grabbed Mary and held her against his chest. He pulled a pocketknife from his pocket and flipped it open, and then held it to her, close to her neck but not touching.

Sherlock stared at him with only a second’s worth of betrayal, and then relaxed, and dropped his expression. _Stupid, of course!_

“You’re not John.”

“Obviously,” the man replied with a smirk, his voice changing dramatically from John’s voice.

“Then where is he?”

The man sniggered. “He’s dead.”

Sherlock ignored the tightness in his chest and Mary’s soft whimpers, and kept his face blank. “When did you kill him?”

“After the bonfire. After he sent you away. It wasn’t a pretty sight. There’s not much left of him—.”

Sherlock let out a huff of laughter. The man stopped talking and tightened his grip around Mary. “Why are you laughing? Your friend is dead.”

“No, he’s not,” Sherlock said. “He’s right behind you.”

The doppelganger’s eyes widened just as John Watson walked into the carriage from behind and smacked his head with his gun, knocking him out. Mary was let go and crowded to the corner, inhaling sharply. John turned to her with a sympathetic look.

“Are you all right?” he asked calmly. She nodded, her breathing significantly slowing down and becoming more stable. John looked to Sherlock and grinned.

“How did you know it wasn’t me?”  

Sherlock met his gaze and breathed in deeply. “At first I didn’t. But the way he wasn’t helping was odd. It was as if he didn’t know what I was doing, which clearly, you would. Oh, and his voice was off. It was nearly like yours, but it sounded more forced.”

“How did he do that?”

“He’s just really good at impressions,” Sherlock said as if it were obvious. “Besides that, he pointed out the time in which the bomb would start its countdown, which you would have definitely told me back at the concert hall if you knew.

John grinned. “I would have, yeah. Afterwards, they took me to a basement but I escaped. I’ll explain everything when we’re…”

“Safe in our beds?” Sherlock offered.

John’s grinned widened. “Yeah, sure.”

Sherlock stepped forward until he was closer to his friend. “Where were you then, if not in here?”

“Oh, well when I first saw this car, I saw this guy inside, and then I heard voices coming closer, so I hid. I then hovered by the door, and waited. I decided not to come inside until you saw me.”

Sherlock grinned. “Nice move.”

John grinned back. “You have a lot to explain then too, I imagine.”

Sherlock laughed. “Yeah I do.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips against John’s temple. John leaned into the embrace, and tilted his head so he could press his lips against the cut on Sherlock’s cheek.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“I know.” Sherlock kissed his lips again, and John started to wrap his arms around the taller man when a voice spoke from behind.

“You guys are being cute and all, but shouldn’t we figure out this bomb first?” Mary suggested. The pair giggled softly and pulled apart. They’re relieved expressions began to dissolve; John stepped towards the unconscious man and knelt beside him. He moved his hand around the man’s neck and then pulled. A skin-like layer of latex peeled off, and John’s furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“Stan?”

Sherlock and Mary stepped closer, and looked. “That’s Bradley Stan.” Mary confirmed.

“Is he the leader of the group John?”

John shook his head. “It seemed like it at first, but he was following orders from someone else. When he was in the room, someone else had this mask on, so maybe they have more than one.”

“Let’s assume they have more than one,” Sherlock said. Mary nodded, and then looked at John, her face changing to suspicion. Sherlock caught it, and then looked at John. John stared at them, his eyes widening slightly.

He remained silent for several moments, his eyes flickering. It was clear to Sherlock he was thinking of something that would prove he’s the real John, but couldn’t think of something right away. Sherlock relaxed his shoulders, but Mary remained tense beside him.

“I asked you to stop being dead.” John stated.

Sherlock stared back at him, ignoring Mary’s stare. “I heard you.”

John sighed with obvious relief and stood up. Mary narrowed her eyes. “So it’s really him?”

“It is,” Sherlock clarified.

Suddenly, the lights in the carriage flickered on, and the bomb in the center of the room gleamed, the timer starting its countdown. John stared at his watch. “It’s only 4:53.”

“Close enough for them I guess,” Mary muttered.

Sherlock circled the bomb and looked closer. John followed him. “Please tell me someone knows you’re down here.”

Sherlock shared a look with Mary; John scoffed, and then turned to Mary. “Go back to the platform, as fast as you can. Call someone, anyone.”

Mary stared at him. “I don’t think I can make it.”

“Yes you can,” John said encouragingly. “Go.”

Mary turned on her heal and fled. John watched her carefully run down the tunnel until she disappeared into the darkness.

John turned to Sherlock. “Use your mind palace.”

Sherlock stared at him. “How will that help?”

“You must know something about bombs. Think!”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. Nothing came right away, but he knelt down and looked over the bomb.

“There…there should be an off switch…” Sherlock said as he looked over the bomb. John paced around the room. Sherlock looked over the explosive multiple times, but then came to a halt, and sighed. He looked up at John.

“I’m sorr—.”

John rushed forward and wrapped his arms around him. “It’s okay…” He murmured softly.

Sherlock tightened underneath him. “It’s not okay, I need to keep looking. You go and—.”

“I am not leaving Sherlock.” John said, his voice suddenly firm. “We’re in this together.” Sherlock stared at him, and then glanced at the timer.

_3:11_

_3:10_

_3:09_

_3:08_

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock, his lips gentle at first, and then desperate. Sherlock kissed him back, trailing his arms around his body and holding him against him. They trailed kisses along the other, murmuring incoherent words and praises.

John leaned back slightly. “I love you,” he said. Sherlock nodded stiffly, and leaned in closer until he was almost touching his lips. “I love you too.”

_2:02_

_2:01_

_2:00_

_1:59_

Mycroft watched from the window as Anthea waited to be questioned. He had no idea how to proceed at the moment, and remained thinking, until the door opened, and a woman walked in.

“Ah, Ms. Sinclair. Has Lee arrived back yet?” Mycroft asked.

“No sir. But this call came in for you,” she handed him a mobile phone, and then left.

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes? It’s Mary.”

“Ah, yes, you’re with Sherlock. What is he up to?”

“There’s a bomb in the Underground, near the Sumatra Road station. Sherlock and John are both down there.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply. “How long until…”

“John made me leave, and well, that was almost five minutes ago.”

Mycroft glanced at his watch. “Have you—.”

A thunderous sound infiltrated Mycroft’s ears, and suddenly the entire room shook violently. Screams and yells emerged from the main room, and were muffled by something crashing. Mycroft tried to get a word out as he exited the room, when suddenly, parts of the ceiling above him broke apart and fell, leaving Mary was left on the other line with a dial tone.

4:59:57 PM

4:59:58 PM

4:59:59 PM

5:00:00 PM


	2. 5 PM - 12 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2! I suggest being awake when reading this, and the next ones.

**CHAPTER 2: The following takes place between 5:00 PM and 12:00 AM**

 

John opened his eyes, his heart still pounding in his ears, waiting for the incoming explosion. But it hadn’t happened. John blinked in his surroundings and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder. The train car was still intact; the doppelganger was still unconscious in the corner.

John pulled away from Sherlock’s embrace; the detective did the same and they both looked at the bomb a few feet away.

0:00:00

John exhaled carefully. “Faulty?”

Sherlock crouched and carefully looked at the device. “Apparently.”

John slowly stood up and glanced out the window. His back tensed slightly. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock carefully stood up beside him and followed John’s gaze.

“Are they the police?”

Sherlock shook his head but relaxed. “No, they’re from MI6 and CTU. Mary must have informed Mycroft.”

John relaxed and inhaled deeply. The men in black surrounded the train car, and Sherlock and John were slowly led out as a bomb squad entered after them. They were escorted out, with Stan right behind them, being dragged in handcuffs and slowly coming aware.

Outside, the sun was completely set, and a dark blanket covered the sky with various clouds. It was colder, and John shivered beside Sherlock as they reached a car. Sherlock took John’s hand in his, an act that took practice and self-assurance that the other man wanted it, yet it felt almost immediately natural for Sherlock by now. John squeezed his hand in reassurance, and briefly let go as he entered the car, taking his hand back as they got seated.

It took them nearly twenty minutes to get back to the MI6 building. First responders were being escorted out by private investigations, who were under orders to initiate a private investigation and keep it out of the public media as much as possible. It was already proving difficulty, as there were several news vans stationed just across the street, with reporters already reporting to cameras.

The car led them to the garage underneath the building, which had received less of the damage, since the explosion had been on the other side. Paramedics with people on various stretchers were leaving in a rush as the two exited the car and hurried indoors, unsure what had happened.

Sherlock immediately scanned the room, noting the extent of the damage. The main room hadn’t suffered as much damage as the rest of the building. Half of the far side was blocked off, and parts of the ceiling had crumbled slightly, but most of the damage was down the hall, near some of the interrogation and technician rooms.

He spotted Mycroft, who was speaking furiously with an unfamiliar man and woman, simultaneously wiping his forehead with a bloody handkerchief.

“Mycroft, what happened?” Sherlock walked towards his brother, his voice firm and his posture tense with a hidden sense of worry.

“Sherlock, it’s under control. No one was serious hurt, but a few had to be taken to the hospital. The left side interrogation rooms received the most of it.”

“And Anthea?”

“She’s fine, fortunately. They transferred her to an empty office in the meantime. I see you have found Stan,” Mycroft pointed out to the man behind the pair, currently being dragged away.

“He’ll be taken to the same room,” Mycroft explained. “And will await questioning.” He turned to John, his eyes widening as he greeted him. “John. What are you—?”

“John Watson?” The man spoke up. Sherlock eyed him carefully, realizing his face was eerily familiar. _Early 50s, lives in the States, recently traveled, has 2 children—daughters, one being…_

Sherlock looked at the woman, instantly seeing the resemblance. She was short, just at five feet, with blonde hair— _dyed, it’s usually light brown. Spent time abroad as well, but somewhere different from her father…_

John stepped forward and faced the man. “Yes?”

“I have a warrant for your arrest by the U.S. Government—.”

Sherlock directed his gaze to the man just as Mycroft rounded on to him.

“You can’t arrest someone on foreign soil—.” Mycroft started.

“I trust you can hand him over to us, Mycroft,” the man said calmly.

“Absolutely not.” Mycroft said.

“Who the hell are you?” John asked, but was ignored.

Sherlock straightened up, the familiar face dawning on him.

“Sebastian Moran,” he said calmly.

Moran looked at him. “Yes, I am. This is my daughter, and assistant, Kim. I came from Washington, to aid in your investigation, since there are American citizens involved.”

Sherlock stared at him with indifference. “You took your time.”

Moran scoffed. “I have a while department to run, Mr. Holmes. I can assure you, I have my priorities straightened out.”

The Holmes brothers looked at each other as John fidgeted on his feet.

“May I see your warrant?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Moran responded. He handed him an envelope. John quickly read it over, his face slowly falling with understanding. He handed the warrant to Mycroft, who looked it over, and then sighed with defeat. Sherlock stepped in front of John a second before Moran stepped forward, taking out handcuffs.

Sherlock snatched the warrant and read it over multiple times.

 **John Watson:** Wanted. Associated with known terrorists (Stan: see file) involved with the threat against the U.S. Government back on April 2 nd, 2014. No attacks were attempted, as information was recovered in time and was stopped. The two primary suspects, Watson and Stan, fled and were unattainable.

Sherlock looked up at Moran and hardened his face. “What evidence do you have?”

Moran was quick to respond. “Surveillance, footage of Watson and Stan together, audio recordings and face recognition.”

“Gather your evidence, and we’ll take it from there.”

“I’m afraid it’s not up for negotiation. I have to arrest Watson now, and interrogate him for a confession—.”

“You will not interrogate British civilians on British soil!” Mycroft interrupted furiously. “Who are your orders from?”

“Well they’re from me. I’m the head director of CTU, I have a warrant signed by the President—.”

“But not the Prime Minister. Nor the head of MI6 or any British government head of office.” Mycroft pointed out. “You and your President do not have jurisdiction here. This is a British building. If he were in the American embassy, then you would, but he’s not, so the warrant can not apply.”

Moran seemed to ponder this for a moment. “I see… well, then I’ll make a few calls, talk to the President, and see if he can clear things up with the Prime Minister.”

“As will I,” Mycroft clarified firmly.

Moran nodded at him once, and then turned on his heals, and walked away, before he called over his shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind me staying here while I do it. It’s nice to see some familiar faces from CTU.” He didn’t wait for a response, and walked down the hall, Kim following close behind.

John slightly relaxed beside Sherlock as they both turned to Mycroft.

“What happens now?” John asked.

“Now you give your report on where you were all day,” Mycroft said. “Talk to Mary, have her record it. That assistant of his may try to join in. Sherlock,” he turned to his brother. “Watch her.”

Sherlock nodded, and then placed his hand on the small of John’s back and ushered him into the conference room where he had set up all his information.

John stepped out of his touch and looked at him. “Sherlock—.”

“I’ll get someone to record your statement,” Sherlock started to turn around, but John caught his arm and gently held him in place.

“Tell me,” John started roughly. He cleared is throat and looked into Sherlock’s eyes, as if searching for some kind of clarification.

Sherlock looked at him and softened his gaze. “I trust you John.”

John looked at him for a moment and then slowly relaxed and let go of his hold. “Good,” he whispered. Sherlock headed back out the door, and quickly motioned Mary for her attention. He spoke to her briefly, and then she left.

Sherlock reentered the room, and they were alone for a few minutes in silence before Mary reentered, holding a laptop and a recorder. She settled her things on the table and set it up, when the door opened again. Sure enough, Kim entered, her features soft and nearly apologetic.

“Erm, my office would like a copy of his statement before Moran proceeds with the interrogation.”

“That’s if he gets one.” Sherlock said harshly. Kim shuffled her feet, and with a nod from Mary, walked in and sat down at the very end. She brought her own tape recorder out and placed it on the table.

Mary looked at John. “You’re ready to give your statement?”

John inhaled deeply and sat down. Sherlock sat beside him. After a moment, John nodded.

Mary and Kim pressed the record button simultaneously, and Mary spoke first.

“Mary Morstan, 2472, here with John Watson, his statement for his whereabouts of the 5th of November, 10:00 AM to 5:00 PM. The time is now 5:53 PM. Go ahead and start John.”

John took a deep breath, and met Mary’s gaze. “I arrived at work around 10:30, and I had only two patients before one walked in and injected me with something before I could even react. I must have had my back turned or something… Everything became fuzzy and the next thing I knew I was outside the church, in the back. I saw men carry large amounts of wood walking towards the front—so they had built the bonfire. There were a couple of men beside me; one looked familiar and soon he identified himself as Bradley Stan—reminded me when we had met back in Kandahar. He didn’t say anything else, just that it was good to see me again. And then, another man came up to me, he was…”

John trailed off and caught his breath, but remained looking at Mary, and didn’t flinch from her nor Kim’s impassive and slightly skeptical look, however Mary nodded assuring, encouraging him to continue.

“He looked just like me. Later in the train with Sherlock I—.”

“Stick to the order of events,” Kim spoke up.

John nodded and cleared his throat. “The doppelganger told me Sherlock was on his way, and that I had to get him out of the way by threatening him. He gave me the pocketknife and then knocked me out before I could do anything else. I awoke under a pile of wood. I didn’t know how long had passed, but then I felt a pair of hands pull me out and when I saw Sherlock, I remembered what I had to do. I hesitated, but then a man came up from behind Sherlock and gave me a warning. He had a gun, so I…I flung the knife at Sherlock…”

John turned towards the detective, clenching. “I am so sorry—.”

Sherlock nodded, meeting his eyes with profound forgiveness.

“Please continue,” Mary said.

John looked back at her. “Afterword’s, I don’t remember but they must had knocked me out again, in the head this time, and I awoke in some kind of cellar…”

Sherlock tensed, an unease speculation forming in his mind. He pushed the thought away and focused on John’s voice.

“… They were speaking German…I recognized a few words like bomb, detective, hour…and I immediately thought of Sherlock. They hit me a few times, mostly in the abdomen, and I hit my head, nearly blacked out—.”

John sat up straight, his eyes going unfocused. Sherlock leaned forward, his hand stretching out towards John but falling short as John lightly gasped.

“I remember a name, they mentioned a name…”

“What was it?” Mary pried.

John focused on her then glanced at Kim, who was looking at him with professional indifference.

“Moran.”

Kim straightened up, a fluster of emotion flickering over her face in a matter of seconds. Sherlock stared at her, cataloguing and analyzing every one, it almost seemed too easy.

_Confusion, suspicion, disbelief, realization, remembering recent events that hadn’t made any sense but had ignored them, reanalyzing them now, confirmation of suspicion, anger, disappointment, embarrassment, and betrayal._

_She didn’t have a clue._

Mary and John looked at Sherlock and then Kim, the two latter looking at each other. Sherlock blinked himself out of his thoughts and slowly looked at John.

“She didn’t know,” he stated confidently.

Mary looked at Kim. “I’m going to have to—.”

“No. Believe me, I don’t know anything. I’m barely his assistant. I’m not allowed in half of his files. But we mustn’t confront him about this. He’s been sending vague emails; I kind of think their codes, to a few others with fake names over the past year. I looked them up once, but none of them existed, at least in any record I had access to.”

Mary sighed sympathetically. “We’re going to have to investigate this. He’ll find out—.”

“No not yet! He’s been contacting someone in CTU, someone else must be involved.”

Mary turned to John, and pressed the recording to start again. Apparently she had stopped it; Sherlock hadn’t noticed until now. _Oh, interesting…_

“I’ll inform Mycroft when we’re done. What happened next John?” Mary asked.

Before John could continue, Sherlock stood up.

“I think John could have a break. Five minutes?”

Mary hesitated, and then nodded. She closed her laptop and paused the recorder, and then stood up.

“I’ll just check on the progress with the rest of the investigation. I’ll be back soon.”

As Mary left, Kim began to follow her, but as the door behind Mary closed, Sherlock spoke.

“Stay here, Kim.”

Kim reluctantly turned around and sat back down. John looked at Sherlock, furrowing his brows in question.

“What’s going on Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t respond right away; he pulled out his phone and sent a text to his brother, and then met John’s gaze, remaining silent for a moment longer.

“Erm, what is it?” Kim asked.

Sherlock glanced at her. “Where were you while your father was in D.C?”

Kim squirmed underneath his gaze. “Back here, why?”

“Before that?”

Kim hesitated. “Germany.”

“And where are these terrorists from, as John had implied.”

Kim didn’t respond, and took a step back.

Sherlock peered at her, narrowing his eyes. “How’s your mother?”

“Fine.” Kim responded without a question as to how he knew.

“German born?”

Kim nodded.

“Light brown hair, brown eyes, just about your height. Your quite the resemblance.”

Kim nodded again.

“Does she dye her hair?”

“Sometimes.”

“Blonde.” It wasn’t a question but Kim nodded. Sherlock paced around the room between Kim and John, noting John’s shuffle of feet in confusion.

“Sherlock—.”

“And your sister?”

This time, Kim hesitated and furrowed her brows. “I don’t have a sister.”

“Maybe not one you’ve met. But your father has two daughters. He has blonde hair, naturally. But blue eyes. A quite prominent nose too, I’d say.”

“Yes…”

“Pity you inherited it. Not very proportionate with the rest of your face.”

“Sherlock—.” John interrupted with a warning in his tone, but Sherlock continued.

“Er…”

“Your sister inherited it too, but had plastic surgery, though it’s still similar. But her eyes, oh they’re brown like yours with nearly identical flecks. Identical twins are rare, but one to go to so many lengths not to look like the other, nearly desperate for something to differentiate between the two. Associating with terrorism is one way of doing it.”

Kim furrowed her eyebrows, her eyes narrowing. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Not you, but you’re sister.”

“I don’t have a sister,” she repeated.

“Yes you do. But you were separated from birth; your parents moved to separate countries. You went with your father and she stayed with your mother. That is, until she tracked your father down, discovered you in the process, but refrained from contacting, until your father recruited her for his dirty work. He tried to have you do it but you weren’t the most intelligent. She excelled in computer science and engineering, immediately hired in a government position, transferred multiple times oversees, and even disguised herself so no one world confuse the two of you, in case you crossed paths. You never did until now.”

Sherlock paused, sensing John inhaling sharply, coming to the conclusion himself.

“Jesus, Sherlock…”

“How the hell did you know that?” Kim asked quietly.

“Small details can complete a puzzle. You didn’t turn off your recorder.”

Kim’s eyes widened slightly as she took a stumbling step backwards.

“Sherlock, what do we do now? She’ll be back soon—.”

“I’ll talk to Mycroft, but I don’t think we should confront them, at least not Mary yet. Like Kim said, wait until we have more evidence—.”

“I’m about to be arrested,” John exclaimed. “If we know who’s framing me, shouldn’t we—.”

“Finish giving your statement, then I’ll question Stan.”

“But I just told her what name I heard. Wouldn’t she warn Moran?” John asked.

“Probably. But I’ll have Mycroft watch him. She may stay away, see what plays out. Moran must be the mastermind, so I need you to do something, John,” Sherlock said, dropping his voice down with seriousness.

John looked at him intently. “What do you need me to do?” He asked slowly.

Sherlock looked into his eyes. “Get arrested. Have Moran question you while I talk to Stan.”

John swallowed hard. Kim spoke up before he could. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock replied without turning towards her.

“No, I mean it. Moran wouldn’t let you in to question Stan, so you’d have to do it while he’s away.”

_Not so ‘not intelligent’ then._

“That’s the plan, yes.” Sherlock remained fixated on John. “John.”

John inhaled deeply and then inclined his head in a sharp nod. “All right.” He paused. “They’d still arrest me even after I give my statement?”

“They have a warrant, they wouldn’t waste it. It would allow them to question you…” Sherlock paused. “Do you have an idea of what they might do to you?”

John clenched his jaw and nodded. “Some idea, yes. It’s not going to be pretty.”

“No, it won’t.”

“I’ll get through it. Just…get everything you need as fast as possible.”

Kim stepped forward. “I can watch the interrogation, speak up if things get too much. It may stall him, at least.”

Sherlock glanced at her, as did John. “Good. All right then.”

They both nodded as Kim retook her seat and Mary walked in.

“Ready to start again John?” she asked gently. She sat down and restarted the recorder.

John looked at Sherlock and then nodded. He reached for Sherlock hand and squeezed it before sitting back down.

“I managed to hit my head against Stan, knocking him out, and escape. The binding ties weren’t exactly made by a professional…I headed upstairs and heard voices talking. Now that I think about it, I heard Moran’s voice. I snuck past them, and then just ran. I decided to go to Sumatra Road, because I hoped Sherlock would be there, and I figured there was something there, since the doppelganger told me to. And so that’s where I found Sherlock and Mary, but Stan must have made it there before me, cause he was unconscious in the corner.”

Mary typed a few notes and then closed her computer and took the recorder. “I need to file this and back it up on the computer, and hopefully Mycroft would have progress with the warrant. You can go to the infirmary, get your injuries check.”

John shook his head. “I’m fine. Do I just wait until they arrest me or…”

“They may not need to, but we won’t know anything for maybe an hour or so. You can try to go home, wash up. Moran will probably send some American agents over if they decided to go through with the warrant.”

Sherlock glanced at his watch. 6:23 PM

“I’ll take John home.” Sherlock swiftly stood up, and John followed out of the room. They nearly made it to the entrance, when Moran stepped in front of them.

“Don’t bother trying to leave the country. We’ll be in touch soon.”

“I have no doubt.” Sherlock said, and the walked past him, with John behind him.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t respond until he was outside and heading towards the main street. “Hm?”

“Should I—.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and faced him quickly. “No.”

John looked at him intently. “It’s not up to you.”

Sherlock kept his face stern, but slowly relaxed his gaze, and nodded for John to continue.

“Shouldn’t I just explain myself? Tell there everything I know, even if it’s little, without having to go through with the warrant?”

“They won’t believe you and then just arrest you anyway. They’re trained agents, John, they know ways to manipulate you, to get you to say things you don’t mean. It’s best if you get the rest you need, and drag this on as far as possible. The more time you have, the more time I have to prove your innocence.”

John sighed and lowered his gaze. “You still believe in me.”

“Of course, John,” Sherlock said even though he knew it wasn’t a question John was asking, but a reassured realization. “Let’s go home.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock and John stepped into the sitting room in silence, many thoughts on both of their minds.

“I’ll just take a quick shower,” John said.

Sherlock nodded in response. “Should I order dinner?”

John froze for a moment and then looked at him. “We had reservations at Angelo’s, but I guess I could just reschedule them.”

“We can still go.”

John looked at him. “You sure? I mean… it can wait.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “What can wait?”

John cleared his throat. “Nothing. Er, Angelo’s is great. Let me shower first.”

Once John disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, Sherlock pulled out his phone.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft answered immediately on the other line.

“Any information yet?”

“About the warrant, I haven’t been able to overrule it. It’s based off of special circumstances by the U.S. President. But they wouldn’t be able to torture any information from him here, that’s for certain. After all, he’s on British soil.”

Sherlock hummed in comprehension. “What about the bomb? Any reason as to why it was at MI6 and not Sumatra Road?”

He could hear his brother shrug. “Probably just a decoy. We haven’t had any information about the apparent threat against Parliament, and therefore aren’t sure if we have a situation to investigate.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I think I have an idea of who the rat is?”

“Who is it?” Mycroft’s tone suddenly becoming alert.

“Mary Morstan. She’s Moran’s daughter, but was raised in Germany. John had overheard the kidnappers talking about Moran, and as Mary was taking his statement, she had recorded it up to that point. Then afterwards, she turned it back on. Don’t be surprise if you find John’s statement altered.”

“What would Mary have anything to do with this? I would have thought it to be Kim—.”

“They’re sisters. If you look at them in the same room, you’ll see the connection.”

“Let’s not get into a battle of deductions now, Sherlock. I’ll look into her past, and let you know if I get anything. Moran is about to question Anthea, so I need to watch that, make sure he plays fairly.”

He hung up and then Sherlock put his phone away. He stared at the darkened street; the crowds of passerby’s increasing further down the street. He got lost in though, recalling on the past few months, and broke out of his reverie when he felt strong hands encircle around his waist.

John pressed his mouth against the nape of his neck, and rubbed his nose against the curl of hair that lined above it.

“Ready?”

Sherlock nodded and turned around. John was wearing his green button up, tucked into his jeans with a brown belt that matched his shoes. He was freshly shaven and smelled— _is that my soap?_

“You smell good,” Sherlock murmured.

“Well yeah, I smell like you.” John replied with a grin. Sherlock smirked and leaned down and pressed his closed lips against John’s. John hummed gently and then pulled back.

“C’mon. I’m starving.”

They walked down the street and towards their favorite Italian restaurant, their shoulders and hands rubbing against each other. Sherlock pulled the door open, and as John walked in, Angelo immediately seated them in their spot by the window.

“You will eat something, won’t you?” John asked as he took off his jacket and placed it beside him in the seat.

“Must I?”

“It’s been a long day. A little could help.”

“Usually I eat on dates.”

“Well, we haven’t had one in a while—.”

“Is this a date? In a middle of case?” Sherlock asked, looking up at John. They never had dates in the middle of cases, and John was always understanding of it. Sherlock raised his eyebrow, expectantly.

John swallowed nervously. “It was going to be. But it doesn’t have to be now. I know we’re on a case.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, but kept his eyebrows furrowed. “You said this morning I had to guess something. Did you plan something?” Sherlock froze for a split second and relaxed his face.

“It’s not our anniversary is it?”

John chuckled and lowered his gaze to his menu. “No, it’s not our anniversary. We’ve only been dating since July.”

Sherlock relaxed but kept his gaze on John. He was still tense and wasn’t completely focused on the menu, and his right hand kept rubbing his pocket. He recalled back in the summer, when they had finally gotten together. He had only been back six weeks from deconstructing Moriarty’s web, and when he had came back, John was understandably furious. It took him only a couple of days to withstand a conversation with Sherlock and hear what he had to say. It took him a bit longer, about a week, before he moved back in to 221B.

But things between them had still been tense. It was just a matter of time before one of them burst, and it just happened to be Sherlock. He told John how he felt, terrified and convinced John would leave him, but then John only took a step forward, not backward, and had kissed him.

The next day John had told him he loved him. And since then, they both had been expressing their profound sentiments toward each other; happier than they ever thought was possible.

“What?” John’s voice startled Sherlock and he blinked.

“You’re smiling.” John pointed out at Sherlock’s confused face. Sherlock only shrugged and looked at the menu.

After ordering, they made small conversation, but John was acting distant, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to pry whatever was on his mind out of him.

Once their dinner arrived, Sherlock only managed a bite before he gave up. “Just say it John.”

John looked up with a mouthful of spaghetti, and furrowed his eyebrows. “What?”

“Say whatever is on your mind. You’ve been fidgeting all night.”

John swallowed hard and looked around nervously, yet he was smirking. “You haven’t deduced it yet?”

“No,” Sherlock said with defeat. “As you know today’s been on my mind.”

John took his hand and rubbed his thumb over it affectionately. “I know. I, er, didn’t want to do this now; I had planned it but I just thought you’d want to wait…”

“Go on, John.” Sherlock suddenly felt nervous but he looked at John fondly, offering a small smile of encouragement. John smiled nervously and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small box and placed it in front of Sherlock.

“This really isn’t the right time, but I guess it won’t ever be, so…” John lowered his gaze for a moment and then looked at Sherlock with a wave of honest trust and love.

“Sherlock, will you marry me?”

Sherlock widened his eyes and stared at John. The man’s eyes didn’t flicker nor did he flinch. He wasn’t kidding.

“John…” Sherlock breathed.

John licked his lips and ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know, it’s—.”

“Yes!”

John closed his mouth and looked at Sherlock, his eyes flickering with surprise then relief. His mouth widened into a smile and his eyes crinkled around the edges.

“You will?”

“Of course John,” Sherlock exclaimed. He leaned forward and captured John’s mouth against his, kissing him deeply and cupping his jaw to hold him close. John moaned and deepened the kiss for a moment, swirling his tongue against Sherlock’s before he broke them apart with a small gasp from Sherlock.

“Do you want to look at it? The ring?”

Sherlock nodded and opened up the box. Inside was a gold band, lined with silver. He picked it up and examined closely, and then placed it on his finger. It fit perfectly. He grinned widely and looked at John, who was looking at him, his eyes glistening.

“John? What’s wrong?” Sherlock’s smile slowly fell. “John?”

“Nothing.” John wiped his face and leaned against Sherlock. “I’m just so relieved.”

“You wouldn’t doubt me.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” John agreed. “But I’ve been thinking of a right time, and it never came, so it just feels really nice to do it like it could be any other night. In between cases, at Angelo’s…”

Sherlock smiled and kissed him again. John leaned into him and ran his hair through Sherlock’s curls, moaning. Sherlock pulled back slightly, and murmured against John’s lips.

“You can take the rest to-go.”

*            *            *

The pair rushed upstairs, kicking off shoes and pulling off jackets as John walked backwards into the sitting room, kissing Sherlock deeply and holding him closely.

“John” Sherlock moaned. “Bed.”

John hummed and then began pushing Sherlock in the direction toward their room, stumbling slightly over the rug and the chairs in the kitchen. Finally in the room, Sherlock collapsed backwards on the bed, and John ran his hands down his sides as he sucked a love bite on Sherlock’s pale neck.

“John.”

“Yes, love?”

“I want-”

“What do you want?” John whispered against Sherlock’s neck, gently placing kisses along his neck and jawline.

“I want you to make love to me.”

“God yes,” John moaned, thrusting his hips into Sherlock. “Let me…” Remaining on top of Sherlock, John stretched over to the bedside table, fumbling for the bottle of lube. After placing it on the bed next to him, John re-straddled Sherlock’s lap, and began thrusting his hips again, feeling the warmth of Sherlock’s groin pressing into him.

“John,” Sherlock moaned impatiently.

“Yes, all right.” John took in a deep breath as he leaned back down, crashing his lips onto Sherlock’s, resulting in a pleased sound from the man below him. Their lips slid around each other, sucking on one another’s lips and tongue as John moved his right hand down Sherlock’s torso, fumbling with the buttons. He moaned against Sherlock’s mouth as he struggled with the clasp.

“Sherlock…”

“Clothes,” Sherlock responded, pulling his lips away from John, his hands unbuttoning his own shirt at lightening speed as John, a tad slower, fumbled with his own buttons, as his fingers shook with excitement and arousal. Once their shirts were thrown across the room, John and Sherlock met in the middle, skin-to-skin, rutting against each other, their lips crashing against each other. John began moving his lips down Sherlock’s neck, leaving red marks along the way.

“John, your pants. Get them off,” Sherlock growled, the order in his tone faulting as his voice quivered.

John reluctantly pulled himself off of Sherlock, wiggling his trousers and pants off as fast as he could as Sherlock did the same. Neither of them took time to look at one another because before he knew it, Sherlock’s naked body was fully pressed up against his, short gasps escaping from Sherlock’s mouth as John resumed his task; leaving pink marks along his pale skin.

“Sherlock…”

“John…oh God…John.”

Sherlock grabbed the lube and shoved it into John’s hands, who swiftly got it open, pouring the right amount into his hand.

“Lie back fully, love, and relax for me.”

Sherlock hummed in response, his want growing on the border of impatience, yet at the same time, bathed in John’s utter and drawn out attention.

John sat back on his knees as he began to stroke Sherlock’s leg with his left hand. He then pressed his hands together, warming the lube before leaning forward, and pressing a kiss on the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, which resulted in a raspy moan from the detective.

John pressed a finger against Sherlock’s entrance, and began slowing working Sherlock open, soon using two fingers and then three, and at the same time, lightly but pleasurably, stroking Sherlock’s cock.

Soon, Sherlock was fully prepared, and John sat forward, his own cock leaking slightly as he aligned himself with Sherlock entrance. The two made eye contact, and both let out moans of pleasure as John slowly entered Sherlock’s body, coming to a pause once he was fully sheathed into Sherlock. The two remained still for a moment, and then the atmosphere heated up as John began rocking into Sherlock, whose hands were clutching John’s arse, pushing him in deeper and holding him still. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck; Sherlock suddenly began licking and sucking John’s chest, leaving marks all along his décollage. John moaned in ecstasy as he began reaching orgasm, any sound coming from him incoherent apart from the following words,

“Oh…Sherlock…love...yes! Yes!”

Sherlock moaned back as his prostate was touched, pleasure soaring throughout his veins. The two were rocking in sync now, John’s hand stroking Sherlock’s cock while he pounded into Sherlock.

“Oh John!”

Sherlock looked into the depths of John’s eyes, and raised one of his hands towards John’s mouth. John eyed it and then immediately knew what Sherlock wanted; he altered his rhythm slowly and reached for Sherlock’s ring finger. Sherlock swirled his finger in John’s mouth as John sucked, running his tongue down the length and against the gold band at the knuckle.

Sherlock thrusted his hips up to John, and John quickened his past, Sherlock finger slipping out of his mouth as he did so. A few seconds later, John came, burning pleasure bursting throughout his body as he shook through the waves, and then Sherlock was coming, his release raging like fire through his blood as he moaned John’s name into a shout.

The two men rode the waves of pleasure, and slowly started to catch their breath; John placed soft kisses along Sherlock brow, his hand coming up to stroke his neck. Sherlock placed his hand on John, squeezing it as he muttered against his cheek.

“I love you, John.”

John blinked, his eyes stingingly slightly as he wrapped his other arm around Sherlock’s back.

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

They breathed heavily for a few moments, and then John slowly slipped out of Sherlock and retreated to the bathroom. He came back with a damp flannel, and cleaned themselves down before sliding back underneath the sheets and cuddling up to Sherlock, wrapping his arm around his middle.

“We should try to get some sleep. It could be any minute now.”

Sherlock nodded against John’s temple and turned to his side, wrapping his arms around John and pulling him in close. John snuggled into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and inhaled deeply.

“Get some sleep, John. I’ll be right here.”

John hummed and swiftly fell into a light doze. Sherlock remained awake for a few minutes, before checking his phone (no messages from Mycroft, 9:06 PM), and then closed his eyes. He fell asleep as well, and woke with a start when voices echoed from the hallway.

*            *            *

Sherlock flinched awake and quickly looked at his phone.

10:47 PM

He glanced at the man snuggled against his chest, and realized John was still very much asleep. Voices echoed from the hallway, and he recognized Moran’s.

_Guess it’s not over yet._

He gently untwined himself from John’s embrace and drew his dressing gown over his nude body before heading out to the sitting room. He didn’t care if he was stark naked under the blue silk; people were in his flat, without his permission, so he’d dress as he damn well pleased.

Sherlock sauntered into the main room, eying the group of people with a look of indifference. Two men in black suits stood behind Sebastian Moran, and Kim stood beside him, however she was looking unconformable with the situation. Mycroft stood to Moran’s right, his face matching his brother’s. He glanced down at Sherlock’s left hand, raised his eyebrows, and yet kept his reaction to himself.

“Here to arrest John?”

“We are,” Moran said as waved his hand. Kim pulled out the warrant and handed it to Sherlock. Sherlock only glanced at it for a second before looking at Moran.

“And this so called confession you have here is evidence?” Sherlock asked with a slight confused tone.

“You’ll hear it while I question him,” Moran clarified.

“At least let him get dress,” Sherlock said. He was starting to feel unease, but kept his face clear of it. He heard a faint thump from behind him, and without another word, headed back to his bedroom.

He opened the door, but unexpectedly stopped in his tracks, his back going rigid. His room was empty.

“John?” Sherlock said although he knew he wouldn’t get a response. The distant sound of a car screeching away erupted from the window, and the thundering steps from the men in the sitting room indicated they had rushed to the window. Sherlock slowly stepped towards them, when Moran came at him, his eyes piercing.

“Were you distracting us so he could get away?”

“Of course not—.”

“Maybe I should arrest you. Interrogate you—you must have something to do with this—.”

“You will not,” Mycroft interrupted. “Unless you have solid evidence of Sherlock’s involvement, you would do no such thing. The car that just left was a faded light blue, nearly grey, original Mini, the year between 1997 and 98. The license plate number began with LA14 but the last three digits I failed to catch—.”

“472,” Kim piqued up. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and then nodded towards her. “You have a lead, better get on with it. In the meantime, I need to talk to Stan; maybe he’ll know where John has gone, if they were in this together. Sherlock, get dress, you’re coming with me.”

Moran gapped. “Wait a minute, he’s a suspect—.”

“You need proof, Sebastian,” Mycroft said coolly. “And I’m aware you don’t have any as of now, so move on. You’re wasting time.”

Moran looked at him furiously, and then hesitated, before huffing with aggravation and storming down the steps, the two men and Kim following quickly behind.

As the door slammed, Mycroft turned to Sherlock. “You don’t know where’s he gone.”

Sherlock tilted his chin up but clenched his jaw. “He never said anything.”

Mycroft sighed. “Right, get dress. I’ll wait in the car,” he said calmly.

Sherlock swiftly got dress, and then glanced around his bedroom. There was no note, but John’s jeans and oatmeal jumper that had been tossed aside a couple of nights ago were gone, meaning he left in a hurry, and out of the window.

Sherlock tied his scarf around his neck and placed his coat on and then graciously entered the car. “John left through the side window, to the back, down the fire escape. There aren’t any signs of another person, but it seems likely. John can’t drive.”

“Another person? Who else would be involved in this that we don’t already know about?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and brought his fist to his chin and lower lip as he looked out the window. “I don’t know.”

*         *         *

Back in the conference room, Sherlock took a step back from the bulletin board. They had so much to do, and it was nearly midnight.

 _Someone high up is the mole_ , Sherlock thought as he placed his fingers under his chin in his thinking pose. _Moran, Mary, Stan…why? Is there anyone else? Is Moran the leader, or is it someone else? But what’s it all for? And why John?_

The door opened, and Mary stepped in, closing it behind her. With one look, Sherlock sighed and turned towards her, composing himself.

“You’ve got a lot of information.”

Mary nodded but didn’t bother sitting down. “I interviewed Anthea with Mycroft, but predictably got nowhere. The evidence against her is small but incriminating. Do you want a look at it?”

Sherlock nodded and pulled the evidence onto the computer screen. Mary settled down on the end of the table and placed a couple of manila folders in front of her. As Sherlock looked over what Anthea had been doing on her phone—only sending emails and looking into private files, Mycroft stepped in, along with another woman.

“Ms. Sinclair, everybody.” Sinclair barely looked up as she down, a near match of Anthea, apart from her wine shade of red hair. She immediately began looking over her portable laptop and other files, occasionally exchanging murmurs with Mycroft, and completely ignoring Mary.

Sherlock continued looking at Anthea’s phone history, when something caught his eye, and he backtracked. After checking only once, he sprang up and wiped Anthea’s name card off the bulletin board, crumbling it and tossing it the trash.

“What are you doing—,” Mary started.

“Anthea is being framed,” Sherlock stated with a smirk. Mary looked at him with disbelief.

“But the evidence—.”

“Planted. Her phone history only has the trail starting already in the files, so how did she get there? She wouldn’t have had enough time to wipe it all, and why wouldn’t it have wiped out the evidence we have? It’s planted, obvious?”

“Okay, but how?” Mary asked, still with skepticism.

“Someone hacked into her account, and planted the history. It’s so easy even John could do it. And he’s not what you’d call a computer enthusiast.”

“So she’s not part of this?”

“No. Mycroft—.”

“Already done, Sherlock,” Mycroft said casually without looking from his phone. “She’ll be reinstated, and then updated, and will be back here with us by half past midnight.”

Sherlock looked at the clock on the wall. 11:53 PM

“Right, so that’s done,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Any sightings of John?” he tried to ask casually, but his voice quivered the slightest, only Mycroft would have caught it. Sherlock absently rubbed his left ring finger, and blanketed his face as he looked up.

Sinclair shook her head while still looking at her computer screen, which showed various CCTV footage from all over the darkened city. “None so far. We have a group of five working on it in station three. They’ll keep us updated by the minute.”

“Good,” Sherlock sighed. “Excellent. So now…” He looked at his brother, who gave him a quick nod before resuming his work. Sherlock looked at the bulletin board, searching for something that would make all of this go faster. The door opened, and he glanced at it to see Mary leaving, and then he looked back to the board.

Mycroft was working on collecting the evidence against Mary; it was proving difficulty, and had been quite a risk for them to postpone their confrontation. But it was the best: keeping Mary from suspecting kept Moran in their sights—it would all go as planned, at least Sherlock was being extra careful from making any mistakes, he couldn’t and wouldn’t risk John’s fate for something peculiar.

 _John_. _Where the hell is he? Why would he leave? People don’t leave unless they have something to hid and John doesn’t—does he? No! He doesn’t!_

Sighing loudly, Sherlock stomped out of the room and headed to the side exist. Out in the cold air, he was left alone for a surprisingly two minutes, before the door reopened and Mycroft showed his face. Silently, the older man pulled out a cigarette, and Sherlock accepted it.

After their cigarettes were lit, Sherlock started feeling slightly calmer. The wind blew against Sherlock, and he realized with a startle he wasn’t wearing his coat or his jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, the goosebumps on his forearms rising from the cold.

“Do you have any idea—.”

“No,” Sherlock said without flinching. “He’s not hiding anything. If anything, he’s going to look for answers himself.”

“Well that’s more believable. John Watson’s not known to run from trouble. Maybe he didn’t leave on his own.”

Sherlock sighed. “Maybe.”

There hadn’t been any sign of another person on the fire escape, but none suggesting there weren’t.

Sighing, Sherlock inhaled deeply from the cigarette. He breathed it out slowly, only—

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock coughed with a startle and spun around. John was standing by the curb, holding a manila folder. His was wearing a white shirt, his jumper was gone, and his jeans and shoes were dirty, looking as if he had run a long distance. His shirt was ripped, and there was a small cut on his abdomen, the blood staining the shirt.

“John!” Sherlock and Mycroft hurried forward. John shoved the folder into Mycroft’s hands, who took it surprisingly gracefully, and then John turned on his heel, apart to sprint away.

Sherlock grabbed him above the elbow and kept him from moving. “Where’d you go? John, Moran has a warrant and you ran, you—.”

“I know what I did, Sherlock!” John snapped, however his tone wasn’t harsh, but pained. “The folder has evidence about a man named Jack Bauer. He worked with the CTU back in 2004, but was accused of terrorism and treason, and fled. According to the evidence, the same people you’re investigating framed him—or at least tried to. I need to go, and wait this out—.”

Sherlock tightened his grip, even though John didn’t make an attempt to leave. “Stay John. Come with us as we go over these files.”

John shook his head. “The files will be ruined, or go missing. Jack said they have a knack for destroying evidence, and manipulating the ones they need for their favor. Please, just—.”

“They won’t hurt you, John. I can protect you—.”

“That’s not what I’m running from, Sherlock. I don’t have a choice. Jack was the one who took me from Baker Street. I thought he was with Moran, you know, taking me hostage to go somewhere to torture me for information, but in the car, he lowered his gun and started explaining everything. Moran’s men found us so we had to run, we got to the car in time but—.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “What, when? When did—.”

John’s eyes flickered. “He didn’t tell you? I-I thought it was Moran, but it could be whoever is behind this, someone higher up, so to speak. We just ran.”

“John, running won’t make it better,” Sherlock urged.

John looked at him regretfully. “I want to stay, but—.”

The door from the back opened suddenly, a group of armed men hurried towards them, their speed picking up as they laid eyes on John. Moran was behind them, as was Lee.

John squirmed out of Sherlock’s grasp and sprinted away, but the men followed. Sherlock chased after them, running ahead of the men through the street—avoiding the sidewalk—and was quickly on John’s heels. John ran fast, but hadn’t thought about where he was going, and he was starting to severely limp. Sherlock clenched down his sudden worry—the cut on his abdomen didn’t look bad but the blood loss would explain the sudden fatigue—and speed up.

John looked over on the other side of the road, and Sherlock leaped into the road a full second before John did. John headed across the road, to where the headlights of a car that matched Mycroft’s description was parked, and then a man stepped out.

He was taller than John but shorter than Sherlock, with blond hair, the streetlights emphasizing his facial features.

The man raised his hands up, and looked intently at John who was running towards him, silently urging him to stop. But John was still far away, and was crossing the street, when a screeching car emerged from the corner and speed in the direction to where John was. Sherlock halted in his tracks, his eyes widening as John suddenly realized himself what was happening.

“JOHN!”

11:59:57 PM

11:59:58 PM

11:59:59 PM

12:00:00 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to my sister greenjello94 (on here) for helping me a ton with the smut!
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter comes later tomorrow, if it ever will, yet comments will always make my day a whole lot better :)


	3. 12 AM - 2 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot can happen in 2 hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic details are in this chapter and the next. 
> 
> The abbreviations that Sherlock mentions are from the numbers/letters corresponding on a cell phone.
> 
> Again, I suggest being awake while reading this.
> 
> Please please leave comments! I like to know how you like the cliff hangers :)

**CHAPTER 3: The following takes place between 12:00 AM and 2:00 AM**

 

The car sped off, leaving John on the ground, unmoving. Sherlock rushed forward, but the man—presumably Jack Bauer—reached him first. Moran and his men pushed past Sherlock and one of them held him back. The men were yelling, at each other, at Jack, at Sherlock, but to the detective everything was muffled, the car tires’ screeching echoing in his ears.

“John…” Sherlock choked out as he tried to stumble forward, but a strong pair of hands held him back, tightening their grip.

The crowd slowly dissolved, and the mysterious man was being handcuffed and taken away; John was being hauled onto his feet, his arms being pulled behind his back and the snap of the handcuffs snapped Sherlock back to present time.

“What the hell are you doing? He needs a doctor—.”

“He’ll get checked once we set him up in interrogation—,” Moran started.

Sherlock glared at him. “He could have internal bleeding, spinal injury—.” Sherlock shot his eyes to John, and observed him as close as he could; the hands still held him back by his shoulders.

A smear of blood covered the left side of John’s head, coming from a cut in his forehead. It wasn’t bleeding profusely, but the alarming amount of red over his face wasn’t comforting. There was a cut on his lower lip, and it was already swollen. The sleeves of his shirt were ripped—he had covered his face as he rolled against the car—and his arms were covered with scrapes and bruising was already forming. As the man pushed him to walk forward, he limped heavily, and Sherlock noticed his shirt was shredded on one side, as were his jeans, a small amount of blood in a few places here and there.

Sherlock twisted from the man’s grasp and stepped in front of John.

“You all right?” he murmured. John was looking down, but he slowly looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes.

“I think so,” he said surprisingly stable. Sherlock nodded and then moved out of the way. Moran and his men led John back to the MI6 building. Sherlock followed closely

*         *         *

John was immediately placed into an interrogation room, but Sherlock didn’t keep quiet. He protested as he was ushered into the conference room; Mycroft appeared and walked up to Moran and Sherlock. Kim and Ms. Sinclair remained at the conference table, whispering a little but paying attention at the same time.

Mycroft eyed Moran suspiciously. “You’re a guest here. Have Watson receive the medical attention he needs before he’s questioned.”

Moran stared at him for several seconds, before giving a curt nod. “It’ll be a quick check up. I don’t want him to stall his interrogation. You can talk to the mystery man.” Moran gave them a dismissal wave and then flickered his hand for Kim. The two walked out, and headed to the interview room. Mycroft turned to Sherlock.

“I’ll question the man. I presume its Bauer?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Right, you can watch. I’ll leave Sinclair here, keep an eye on things.” Sherlock nodded again, and then followed his brother.

In the room outside the interrogation room, the man was staring directly at them, clearly knowing they were behind the one sided mirror.

“Did you come across any information since you snuck away?”

Mycroft nodded. “He matched the description. Jack Bauer was part of CTU, like John said. He was the director, until he was wanted for treason. He vanished off the grid before they could arrest him. He’s been under the radar since 2007.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “Why the reemergence now? Did you look at the folder John gave you?”

“I did. It’s in safekeeping. If John is right, then I don’t want to take any risks.”

Mycroft entered the room, and Sherlock stayed behind. He watched Bauer’s facial expressions and reactions, and found him intriguing. He barely flinched and remained a cold hard stare at Mycroft. He had been trained for this, and wouldn’t make it easy for information.

The door behind him opened and Sherlock turned around. Kim entered, and closed the door behind her.

“Moran is starting the interrogation with John. He’s already starting to use extreme measures,” Kim said clearly, not attempting to keep any information from him.

Sherlock swallowed tightly. “Has John said anything?”

Kim nodded. “He said his name, and was honest. So far he’s recalled the past twelve hours, the first seven a near perfect match to the recording from earlier. He said when he woke up later this evening, Bauer had been in the window, and quietly ushered him outside at gunpoint. He didn’t know who he was or what he wanted until Bauer drove away. He didn’t mention the manila folder.”

Sherlock sharpened his gaze at her and narrowed his eyes. She smirked.

“I was outside when you and your brother came out. It’s a pretty good spot for a smoke.”

Sherlock looked at her intently and then offered a small smirk.

She fell silent for a minute, before speaking softly. “How’d he do it?”

Startled, Sherlock looked at her, furrowing his brows. She looked down at his left hand, grinning.

“You didn’t have a ring on earlier, so it must have happened when the two of you left while the warrant was being processed. Was it romantic? A surprise?”

“It was…” Sherlock trailed off, and didn’t bother trying to hide his own grin. “It was a surprise, only since I’ve had my mind on other things. But it’s us; trying to find time for intimacy in the middle of a case isn’t the usual—usually we’re together anyway and not the suspect for the majority of it, but I wouldn’t change how it happened.”

Kim smiled. “Good.”

The pair looked back to the window. Apparently Bauer was playing the silent treatment, but Mycroft was playing along, to an extent.

“I’ve met him,” Kim stated. Sherlock didn’t respond, and let her continued.

“He was probably the best directors CTU had seen in years. He was always on top of things, I was surprised about the accusations.”

“Did you believe them?”

“At first no. For a while, sure, but I had my doubts. Still do.”

Silence fell for a minute. Bauer and Mycroft remained silent.

“Anything from Stan yet?”

Kim shook her head. “He’s been pushed down from priority. I don’t know why, he was our first lead.”

Sherlock pondered for a moment. “I think I’ll pay him a visit.”

Kim followed him to the main room, and then headed back to the next one. “I’ll update you about John.”

Sherlock nodded his thanks and then went to Stan’s room. He walked in, closed the door, but then stopped in his tracks.

Mary was in the room, but was in an embrace with Stan, a close enough embrace that immediately named itself in front of Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock focused and spotted a figure in the room. Lee stared back at him, and swiftly pulled out his gun and aimed it at Sherlock’s chest. The pair in the room gave no notice—they wouldn’t anyway, the mirror on their side hiding their view— and Sherlock quickly realized he had closed the door a second too soon.

Thoughts ran through his mind, trying to find the connection.

“You worked with Stan, back in Kandahar. That’s the connection, the start of it all.”

Lee nodded. “All of this wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for that doctor of yours. All he had to do was save our lives.”

Sherlock recalled for a moment and then scoffed. “Your life wasn’t endangered. You were save back home, contacting over a phone. Don’t pretend you have anything to gain here.”

Lee’s hand didn’t shake, but his eyes flickered with doubt. Sherlock stepped forward, confidence in his stride.

“O’Brian died on the operating table. A bullet shot through his back and out his chest. It was a lost cause. The detail the report failed to note was that it was shot from the direction of your team. Unless there were enemies on all sides, the report didn’t state that either. But the original report has been lost, so a replica was made, failing to be consistent.”

Lee’s hand steadied his grip and raised his aim slightly.

Sherlock laughed. “You can’t shoot me in here, there’s only one way in. And everyone outside will here the shot.”

Lee pondered for a moment, but didn’t make a move when the door to the room opened, and Mary walked out. She stopped in her tracks and her face fell. She glared at Lee then at Sherlock.

“Well, took you long enough.”

Sherlock turned to her. “Interesting last name. Morstan. You wanted your father’s name rather than your mother’s, but then you got married. When Stan started getting involved in terrorists and oversees underground networks, you changed it before it was recorded. Morstan sure is an interesting combination.”

“Quite obvious it’s easy to overlook,” Mary replied with a proud smirk. “Lee, hand me your phone.”

Lee did so, keeping his aim at Sherlock’s chest. She dialed a number and a voice answered it after the first ring.

“Sebastian, yes it’s Mary. I’m sending you the confirmation.”

Without another word, she hung up, and then pushed a few keys before giving Lee back the phone.

“What did you just do?” Sherlock asked coldly.

“Just gave Moran the confirmation to do whatever he likes to John. It’s clearly false, but it won’t be realized into tomorrow, and I’ll be long gone.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched and he looked at Lee. Sighing he nodded his agreement he’d be quiet about this discovery—however temporary—and rushed out of the room. He didn’t bother stopping Mary and Lee exit after him, going back to their stations. He reached John’s, but it was locked. Mycroft appeared from the conference room, and hurried forward as he saw him.

“Sherlock—?”

“Open this door!” Sherlock demanded. As Mycroft pulled his keys out, a small foot slammed against the door, breaking it open. Sherlock glanced at Kim, who only smirked.

“He locked me out too,” she managed to say.

Sherlock nodded to her as he rushed in. The first room was empty, but Moran was in the interrogation room, his back to the window, and John in front of him, however he was blocked from view. A small camera was on a rod, facing John, and a red light flashing. There was another man against the wall, with a metal suitcase of several different needles and vials, and a mini heart monitor. The heart line was beeping rapidly, clearly not normal.

Sherlock opened the door, finding it conveniently unlocked, and stormed in until he had a clear sight of John.

John was slouched in his seat, his head hanging with his chin to his chest. His wrists were handcuffed to each arm of the metal chair, rubbing tightly against his wrists, which were already pink and a little of skin breaking. He tried to lift his head up, but was having trouble in doing so. Sherlock caught his eye, and he offered a small grin, assuring him despite the situation. His eyes were red and puffy, and sweat and tears were dripping from his face. Wires were placed over his chest, connecting him to the monitor. There were slight burns on his neck, eerily reminiscent of taser marks.

In seconds from barging in, Moran had stood up and glared at the men. “What the hell are you—.”

“What the hell are _you_ doing?” Mycroft cut him off. “Whatever confirmation you have for drug torture has been falsified.”

Moran shrugged. “Then arrest whoever sent it. I had no part in it, I’m just following orders.”

Sherlock turned towards him. “Following orders from whom?”

Moran looked at him and then scoffed, ignoring his question. “The confirmation came from Mary. It was signed by the President and the Prime Minister, granting me permission to do whatever I need to, no matter what citizenship the subject has.”

Mycroft scoffed. “We can analyze the legitimacy of this confirmation, but John needs medical attention. Bring whatever information you managed to get in to the conference room in three minutes,” Mycroft snapped, and then left, immediately heading to the room he mentioned. Kim followed him, but Sherlock remained where he was, waiting for Moran to leave.

Moran narrowed his eyes at him, and then placed a key on the table. He then turned off the recorder and the camera, took the video chip out and picked up the recorder, carrying them as he headed for the door. The other man packed up without a word, taking the heart monitor with him, and followed Moran out the door, just as a couple of medical staff pulling a gurney entered the room.

“Can we have a minute?” Sherlock asked.

The woman nodded, and remained in the doorway. Sherlock stepped closer to John, and knelt down beside him. John’s head was hanging limply, and his eyes kept fluttering open and close.

“John?” Sherlock urged gently. “Open your eyes for me.”

John made a noise in the back of his throat, and opened his eyes briefly, before closing them again.

“John.” Sherlock insisted again, keeping his voice soft.

John whined and squeezed his eyes. Sherlock bit his lip, and then reached for the key on the table. He uncuffed John from the arms of the chair, and then slowly massaged the left one, soothing the irritation and redness. John swallowed audibly and slowly raised his head slightly. He looked up at Sherlock, but his eyes were unfocused and cloudy. He parted his lips, but only a groan escaped them. Sherlock wiped John’s forehead, caressing it with his fingers and trailing down to cup his check.

“You’ll be taken to the infirmary. It may hurt to move, just try to stay calm.”

John shifted his head slightly in a weak nod, but grimaced and furrowed his brows. Sherlock remained where he was as he motioned for the medics. They wheeled in the stretcher, and then stood on either side of John. Sherlock gave John a gentle squeeze in his hand, and then stood out of the way. The medics held onto John as they helped stand him up. His legs shook and he leaned heavily on them, but kept himself from crying out. They led him to the gurney, and he very nearly collapsed onto it; they rearranged his limbs and quickly wheeled him out. Sherlock watched as they left, noticing John was already passing out.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and composed himself. He straightened up and then headed to the conference room. Upon entering, Kim came up to him, her brows knitted with concern.

“Don’t you want to go with him?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s barely conscious. I’ll check on him after we’re done here.” He looked around the room, spotting Mary, Lee, Moran, Mycroft, Anthea—who was looking surprisingly well after no doubt several hours of endless interrogation, however fortunately didn’t receive any extensive measures—and Ms. Sinclair. Kim took a seat by her father while Sherlock sat at the end closest to the entrance as the room fell silent.

The CTU personal were on one side, facing the MI6, as if ready for a debate. There were several manila folders out, most indicating the suspects John, Stan, and a file even on Bauer. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw another folder by Mycroft’s side, matching the one John had been holding based off of the wrinkle and wear precisely on all four edges.

“I’m going to start,” Mycroft said. “It’s 12:53 AM, November the 6th, for the record. MI6 and CTU have evidence of Bradley Stan and John Watson for terrorism activities. Jack Bauer was apprehended at 12:11 AM. Anthea Smith was accused, but the evidence proved to have been planted. Further investigation is currently taking place.”

There were murmurs on MI6’s side; CTU remained stoic.

“Let’s start with Stan,” Moran spoke up.

“He was arrested and logged in at 5:30 PM. He was arrested at Sumatra Road, where there was a bomb in an abandoned train car. The consultant on my team was there, as one of your computer analyst.”

“I understand he had been wearing a mask, impersonating Watson,” Moran stated.

Mycroft nodded. “The mask was logged in as evidence. There’s Stan’s DNA all over it.”

“I listened and read Watson’s statement. Why are these terrorists impersonating him? It suggests the photos of him aren’t in fact him,” Moran said.

“It does,” Mycroft agreed. “Which begs the question as to why you were in such a hurry to use extreme measures in your interrogation.”

“The evidence you have is for the terrorist threat from seventeen hours ago. Watson is wanted for terrorism activity against the U.S. and for working with Bauer back in April 2014.”

“And the evidence?”

“Photos, recordings of his voice, I have a box full of evidence, hard copy and electronic. I can have it brought over in the next hour if you insist.”

“Oh, I insist,” Mycroft replied coldly.

Moran leaned to his side and whispered to Kim. Kim began typing on her laptop, and then whispered back.

“It’s sent.”

“Good.” Mycroft pulled the photos to the bigger screen. The photos showed Bauer and John, and to an ordinary person it would appear to be the same men being held in this very building.

Mycroft sighed. “It wouldn’t hurt to have this checked, now we know about doppelgangers impersonating one of the men in the photos.”

Moran shrugged. “I guess not.”

“Good, I’ll have it worked on. Now would you play the interrogation interview? It hasn’t been long since it took place, so I can say it hasn’t been tampered with.”

“It hasn’t,” Moran confirmed with a glare in his eyes.

The video appeared on screen, and Sherlock clenched his fist on his knee as he saw John being handcuffed to the chair harshly.

_“State your name.”_

_“John Watson.” His voice was stable, despite the cut on his forehead. There was a thin layer of gauze over it, however had been weakly applied._

_“Full name.”_

_John sniggered, (“Seriously?”) and then dropped his smile when Moran didn’t continue._

_“John Hamish Watson.”_

_“Can you state your whereabouts for November the fifth, from 8 AM to 12 AM on November the sixth.”_

_“Er, I arrived at work after 10, it wasn’t long into my shift when someone walked in and injected me with something before I could even react. The next thing I knew I was outside in the backyard of a church. I saw men carry large amounts of wood walking towards the front. There were a couple of men beside me; one looked familiar—.”_

_“From where?”_

_“Er, I didn’t know until he told me. He identified himself as Bradley Stan and reminded me when we had met back in Kandahar. He didn’t say anything else and then, another man came up to me, he was—he looked just like me. Later in the train with Sherlock I—.”_

_“Stick to the order of events,” Moran interrupted._

_John nodded and cleared his throat. “The doppelganger told me Sherlock was on his way, and that I had to get him out of the way by threatening him. He gave me the pocketknife and then the next thing I know I’m under a pile of wood. I didn’t know how long had passed, but then I felt a pair of hands pull me out and when I saw Sherlock, I remembered what I had to do. I hesitated, but then a man came up from behind Sherlock and gave me a warning. He had a gun, so I…I flung the knife at Sherlock…”_

_John inhaled and clenched his fists. “I was knocked out again, and then woke up in some kind of cellar. The men were speaking German…I recognized a few words like bomb and hour. They hit me a few times; I nearly blacked out, but they had left me alone for the most of it. Eventually I managed to escape—.”_

_“How?”_

_“Stan showed up, and I banged my head against his, pulled my arms out of the restraints—they weren’t that tight, um, and I decided to go to Sumatra Road, because I hoped Sherlock would be there, and I figured there was something there, since the doppelganger told me to. And so that’s where I found Sherlock and Mary, but Stan must have made it there before me, cause he was unconscious in the corner.”_

_“Then you came here with Holmes around 5:30?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Where were you on April 2 nd, 2014?”_

_“Er, what day was that?”_

_“A Sunday.”_

_“Then I was at home, with Sherlock.”_

_“Sherlock?”_

_“Holmes. My partner.”_

_“Have you seen this man?” (Moran showed John a picture of Jack Bauer.)_

_“Not until er, what time is it?”_

_“12:27.”_

_“Then around 11 last night. At Baker Street. That was the first time I saw him. I might have met him in Kandahar, but that was ages ago.”_

_“Where’d you two go?”_

_“ He forced me to go with him, at gunpoint. He didn’t explain until he drove off. Said he was also being framed by CTU, and was collecting evidence for his appeal when he came across me.”_

_“I’ve spoken to Bauer briefly, he says he’s working with Stan.”_

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who shook his head. Bauer hadn’t spoken yet, his expression said.

_“Well he’s lying. Or you’re lying.”_

_“Did you see the evidence he had about himself?”_

_“No.” John was lying, but it seemed like Moran believed him._

_“What was the terrorist plan for November the fifth?”_

_John shook his head. “I don’t know.”_

_On the screen, Moran motioned his head to the side, and a taser entered the screen and was directed to the pulse point on John’s neck. John arched his back and gritted his teeth, but didn’t cry out._

_“What was the terrorist plan for November the fifth?” Moran repeated._

_“I don’t know,” John grunted._

_Moran nodded again, and John was electrocuted again, then going limp for a second before gasping for breath and looking up at Moran._

_“You have to believe me. I have nothing to do with this.”_

_Moran motioned his head again, but as the taser reached John’s neck, he shouted, “Wait!”_

_The man held the taser, and John slowly caught his breath. His expression looked like he was considering his options, and Sherlock had a feeling what he was going to say just as he did._

_“You were there.”_

_“I was where?” Moran asked dismissively._

_“At the building where I was kidnapped and being held. It was after the bonfire at St. John’s Square, you were there. I recognize your voice. Stan was there too, and others.”_

_Moan scoffed and then reached down below him. He pulled up a metal brief case and placed it on the table._

_John looked at it briefly, his brows furrowing. “What’s in there?”_

_“All kinds of serums and drugs. There’s one that feels like fire going through your veins. Another produces rabid fear you don’t know what’s up or down. Which one would you like first?”_

_Panic flickered in John’s eyes, and he swallowed tightly. “You wouldn’t. I’m a British citizen.”_

_Just then, Moran’s phone rang, and then hung less than a minute later. Silence fell for another minute, and then Moran put his phone in front of John’s eyes. John looked it over and then slouched with defeat._

_“I have all the confirmation I need.”_

_The man beside John took a vial out of the case and immediately took an amount and then injected it into John’s left arm, without even tying it with a tourniquet for better access to a vein. John’s face turned red and pulled at his restraints. He cried out, squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists in pain._

_“Stop—make it stop!” John voice quivered. Moran waved a hand, and then the nameless man injected a clear serum. John calmed down almost instantly, breathing raggedly through his open mouth._

_“Confess, and this will get easier.”_

_“Fuck you.” John gasped. Moran sighed and nodded again. A different colored serum was injected, and John screamed. He twisted in his writs and closed his eyes. The effects didn’t last as long, and disappeared all together within seconds._

_“That was the fear,” Moran explained. “Next time, I’ll have it last for a full minute, see if you remember your partner’s name afterwards.”_

_The door behind him opened, and Sherlock’s figure emerged just as the video came to an end._

Sherlock sighed and released his hand over his knee, unclenching his fists to relax the cramping. The video was unbearable, but seeing it brought things to light.

“Clearly you overstepped your privileges here, Sebastian,” Mycroft said. “I’ll have it filed for investigation, and send it to your bosses.”

“Do as you wish. I got what I needed.”

“What? Pleasure?” Sherlock snapped.

Moran ignored him. “Now about our other suspects.” Moran said in annoyance.

“Stan is obviously guilty,” Mary spoke up. “The evidence against Watson is starting to lose its hold. Stan confirms he was involved, but I’m afraid we’ll need more to back it up.”

“The connection of the two?” Moran asked.

“They met at the same time you met Watson, or have you forgotten?” Mycroft said. “Back in Kandahar, 2004. The ten year anniversary just passed—.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and the outside noise began a mere murmur. He blocked the rest out and focused.

In late March 2014, Sherlock had come back from the dead, taking John by surprise. He had been furious, but slowly things began to settle between them. One thing Sherlock noticed but never brought up was the fact that John never left his sight. From then on to the middle of summer, John would barely be gone for half an hour. After they had finally gotten together, John had confessed—somewhat—and said he had been afraid he’d be gone too long and Sherlock would disappear, and his miracle would become a nightmare. Sherlock had held him tightly, assuring him until they both fell asleep that he was staying for good, and had no intention of his leaving his friend alone again.

John was with him on April 2nd, 2014.

_2472…April 2 nd, 1972? In 2004, Stan’s team was attacked, O’Brian was killed. John was the doctor on the case—is that it, was this all just a revenge act for the death of one of their own? John didn’t kill him._

_2472 – April 2 nd 1972, historical events: 0 of relevance_

_Births: ???_

_2472 – abbreviations and acronyms: AGPA: American Group Psychotherapy Association AGPB: Cerealiers de France, AGPC: Association of Game and Puzzle Collectors, AGQA: Insurance, AGRA: City in India—_

_Files of MI6 employees: ~~Anthea Smith – b. 1981~~_

_~~Mycroft Holmes b. 1970~~_

_Files of CTU employees: ~~Sebastian Moran b. 1942~~_

_**Kim Moran b. April 2 nd 1972**_

**_Mary Morstan (Moran-Stan) b. April 2 nd 1972_ **

_Mary Morstan…_

Sherlock reached forward to the nearest laptop and slide it closer, ignoring the glare and minute protest. He typed fast, going into old files and documents from the past ten years and so domestically dull it would be easy to overlook.

“Ah-ha!”

“Has your brother found something he wants to share with the rest of us?” Moran said coldly.

“You asked John where he was on April 2nd, 2014, correct?” Sherlock asked as he stood from his seat and began circling the room.

“I did,” Moran replied.

“And his response?”

“He denied he was ever with Jack.”

“Well he wasn’t—.”

Moran scoffed. “The photos—.”

“Whoever is with Jack is wearing a mask. My guess is Stan, since his stance and posture match the one from the train under Sumatra Road. Why Jack was associating with Stan could be for any reason, but I’m certain of one, which I’ll get to in a moment.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft groaned.

“Oh shut up, this is more fun. Now, where was John on April 2nd, 2014? He was with me, in London. You Americans may not know this, but I spent some time away, and came back in March. We spent nearly all of spring together, like a pre-honeymoon, without the sex. Until summer of course.”

Sherlock ignored his brother’s groan and grimace, and continued, smirking, and increased his pace around the room.

“John was no where near Jack. So the mask theory makes perfect sense. In fact, it’s a practice one. Stan fools Jack, gets him on board, but Jack’s only it for one thing: to clear his own name. He was involved in Kandahar, their first target for reasons unknown—probably tedious—but O’Brian gets caught in the crosshairs. He breaks from them, arrives home to find he’s wanted so he vanishes, and starts to collect his own evidence. Then it’s November, and things are going as planned. John is spotted easily with Stan, and then reaches the interest of MI6. CTU gets involved, as it was their plan from the start to get him in for themselves—or at least, Moran’s plan. Now I said this earlier with Kim and my brother, but we decided to keep it to ourselves, see how it plans out—now Mary, how was India?”

The room stilled and Mary looked up. “Sorry?” Her face fell with honest confusion.

“Agra, India. That’s where you got married. But you don’t wear a wedding ring, at least haven’t for a while but the tan line is still there. You got married on April 2nd, 2000, now why on your birthday? And why in Agra? Not the first place I’d pick. It’s where your husband was born isn’t it? Not his family’s native place but his birthplace all the same. A family affair! How splendid.”

Sherlock spun around and stood in front of his hasty made bulletin board.

“But your father wasn’t there. Nor your sister. They were back in the states, working for the man himself. Yes your father is Sebastian Moran, which makes Kim your sister. Isn’t this a good day for a family reunion. But oh wait! Your husband’s currently in lockup wanted for small things, terrorism, and treason…quite the deal breakers. Now, you were only included in when things got a bit sketchy in Kandahar in 2004. On once again, April 2nd. The day must be important enough—so easily to remember that it’s your password code.”

Sherlock inhaled deeply, taking a quick count of the room. “Where was I? Ah yes, my point.” He smirked and looked at his audience. “I suggest Moran you file for a warrant for Mary’s arrest. She’s the mole—as been this entire time. Framed Anthea, and is involved in framing John.”

Moran gapped at him and stood up. “You can’t be serious—.”

“I can assure you, I am. She framed Anthea, choosing a last name to make her account more real. But Anthea’s name is unknown, even to me; ‘Anthea’ is just her name of the week. She was Clara last week. Don’t worry; even I’m confused half the time. Anyway, Mary’s bad, Kim’s good, you might want to reassess your favorites.”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a look, who nodded. “So John is innocent. How? The pictures seem real enough. Kim, do you have the recordings from his statement.”

Kim straightened in her seat. “I do. But it seems Mary’s is a falter. It sounds like it’s been edited.”

“Play it for the room.”

Kim did so.

_“…I arrived at work around 10:30, and I—called Brad-ley Stan. He arrived and ma-de sure I was rea-dy for today…”_

“The recording is scratchy, and John’s voice is skipping too fast on certain syllables that was an attempt to have him say words he never actually said. Clearly been tampered with. But yours is original, is it not?”

“It is. And I have another one on my phone, not a copy just another recording.”

Sherlock gave her an approving grin. “Perfect. The point of all this ladies and gentlemen is to be careful who you trust. Information is so easy to fix, once it’s planted in your head, it’ll be harder to contradict it. John was framed. Further investigation will just prove it. Lee Van der Ross is involved as well. He was the director of your mission, Moran, in Kandahar. This was an elaborate but messy attempt for revenge. O’Brian’s death was a tragic accident, but not at all at the hands of John Watson. You’ll probably be investigated, since it seems like O’Brian’s death was caused by friendly fire, but that’s a different jurisdiction and not of my interest, not to mention your position proves difficulty. If there’s any evidence against you, you have my word that MI6 won’t stop until they take you down. It’s just a matter of time.” Sherlock smirked and looked around, noticing a group of men through the glass door, heading to the conference room—clearly to arrest the new suspects—, Moran’s conflicted and confused look, Kim’s fail at hiding her triumph, and Mary—was gone.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, and promptly thought of all the possibilities as to where she had gone.

Sherlock pushed aside the slow erupting chaos and quickened his pace once he made it out of the room. The infirmary was a floor below them, so he headed to the stairs, faintly registering a couple of others following him.

Sherlock sped down the steps, and nearly broke out into a run once he made it to the correct floor. The hallway was dark grey—the carpet nearly matching to dull shine of the thin steel walls. He heard the footsteps speed up to catch up with him, noticing Kim’s shorter step just ahead of Mycroft and Sinclair.

Finally, he made it to the front doors of the infirmary and barged in through them. There were rooms along his left, glass doors sealing off their entrance with a large glass window next to them. He walked past them, finding each one empty. Five rooms down, he found the right one.

Through the window, John was lying still on the bed, alone. Sherlock slowly entered the room and went up to his bedside.

“John?”

John shifted away and looked up at him. “Hey…” he said tiredly. Sherlock looked around the room but didn’t find anything out of place.

“You all right?”

John nodded. “Still a bit sore.” His voice was scratchy and low, but otherwise sounded unbothered.

Sherlock looked over his body with concern; John was still pale and would grimace even from the slightest bit of movement. John met his eye and offered him a small smile. He leaned up until he was sitting up and lying back against the pillow. His hospital gown shifted, and Sherlock noticed start of a tattoo of a snake on his right side. John hates snakes.

Sherlock looked up at John, who was grinning at him. Sherlock glared at him and lunged forward, wrapping his hands around the man’s throat.

“Where is John!?” Sherlock bellowed. Kim and the others stepped forward, but paused as he continued.

“WHERE IS HE?”

John—the imposter—choked and attempted to shake his head. “Sher—.”

“TELL ME!”

The man choked again, and Sherlock squeezed harder, feeling the skin around the man’s neck part. He parted his hands and noticed the two layers; quickly he leaned away slightly and slid his hand underneath the space and pulled. The silicone mask ripped upwards, and the man’s face appeared as Bradley Stan.

“You,” Sherlock spat at him.

Stan grinned mischievously. “You better hurry.”

Sherlock spun on his heal and ran out the door. The others followed him as security entered the hospital room. Sherlock ran down the hall and immediately headed towards the exit. He pushed through it and entered the darkened parking lot. He looked around, and then spotted two blond haired figures in the distance, one behind pulled by the arm to keep up.

Sherlock yelled at them as he ran towards them. The woman—Mary—picked up her pace and headed to a car. She started fumbling with the keys when she turned suddenly and faced Sherlock, pulling out a gun and aiming it at John’s head.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks five meters away from them. John had been hastily dressed in his clothes, and was breathing heavily, a gleam of sweet over his pale forehead, but still standing up nonetheless.

Sherlock raised his hands up slightly. “Let him go Mary.”

“Why? He’s the reason behind all of this.” Her whole manner was different; she seemed like a completely different person, that Sherlock had to give her credit for her performance, despite the circumstances.

“You were quite convincing,” Sherlock praised her calmly. “I never saw it coming.”

“Oh but you did. You knew the minute John had recalled Moran being part of his kidnapping. But Moran wasn’t there, he’s being framed as well.”

“Don’t bother trying to protect your father, he’ll still favor Kim. That’s what it is for you, isn’t it? Not revenge, just sibling rivalry.”

Mary scoffed but Sherlock continued. “You only became apart of this because of Stan. You found out it was your father who shot O’Brian. Stan convinced you to join him and Lee to frame Bauer, to protect Moran, but that failed. So you choose the doctor, claiming it was malpractice. Stan reconnected with Bauer, tying him in, but you all were fooled when Bauer was working as a double agent, working with an underground network back in the states to prove his innocence. You wanted to impress your father, so you even tried to run over John—yes was you, there’ll be surveillance footage found soon enough, so don’t bother denying it. It became messy and pathetic, I’m surprise you managed to get away with it for, oh,” Sherlock glanced at his watch. “Sixteen hours.”

“You’re getting slow then, too,” Mary shot back. “Watson wasn’t supposed to meet you at Sumatra Road, only you should have been there.”

“Then why did you tag along?”

Mary didn’t respond, and then Sherlock chuckled humorlessly. “You knew Stan would be there, and wanted to save him. You couldn’t risk losing your father to the law and your husband—.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh did I hit a nerve?”

Mary steadied her grip. “I will shoot him. You may not want to see this.”

“Giving me a warning, how kind of you.” Sherlock looked over her shoulder for half a second before meeting her eye. “No, Mary, you won’t.”

A shot rang through the air and Mary yelped; John pushed out of her grasp. Sherlock gathered him into his arms and pulled him away. Mary stood up, grimacing as her injured shoulder was pulled as she was handcuffed, and Sherlock glanced behind her.

Sinclair lowered her gun, gave the two the slightest grin, before blanketing her face and walking towards Mycroft.

“That was a lucky shot,” John murmured.

Sherlock tightened his arms around him and buried his face into John’s neck.

“Er, Sherlock? You all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed.

John remained silent for a few minutes before leaned back slightly in order to see the detective’s face. “So the case is over.”

Sherlock nodded. “Solving it, yes. But there’s going to be a tremendous amount of paperwork.”

John chuckled and looked at Sherlock’s watch. “God, what a day.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Let’s go home now.”

1:59:57 AM

1:59:58 AM

1:59:59 AM

2:00:00 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's 8 more hours.....I'll post the last chapter later tomorrow :)


	4. 2 AM - 10 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! The final 8 hours!! 
> 
> 2 AM- 3AM is skimmed, because there wasn't much that needed to be written out but the process of it all would take an hour in context.

**CHAPTER 4: The following takes place between 2:00 AM and 10:00 AM  
**

 

It was nearly three in the morning by the time Sherlock and John arrived back home at Baker Street. John’s injuries had been checked before he was allowed to leave, and his warrant was, to put kindly, cancelled. Mycroft didn’t seem to mind them leaving, and Sherlock didn’t question it. Moran was taken into custody by the American Embassy, as were Mary and Lee, and Kim requested she watch her father’s statement. She didn’t want anything to do with her sister, and took the lead in the rest of the investigation with surprising confidence. Stan was kept in custody by MI6, and was going to be transferred as well; both countries wanted all of the suspects, so Sherlock knew Mycroft had a hell of a lot of paperwork to organize each investigation and arrest. As for Bauer, the folder he had given to John managed to contradict all of the evidence against him within the hour, and gave John a final handshake before going with the embassy. John was glad he was finally exonerated, and thanked Mycroft for his help in all of this.

There would be paperwork for the two of them in the morning, but Sherlock was planning on leaving that for several hours later, after a proper lie in, at least for John’s sake.

Unlike their usual cases, this one had been emotionally exhausting, and as they slowly undressed and climbed into bed, they murmured their usual sentiments and fell into a deep sleep, pressed up against each other for warmth and comfort.

*         *         *

Sherlock stirred, and blinked blearily as he started to wake up. It was still dark outside, and a glance at the clock told him it was almost six. He looked down and found John still asleep, curled up against his chest. Sherlock looked at him fondly, and wrapped his arms around his blogger. John shifted slightly and sighed with content.

Sherlock lied still in the quiet, focusing mainly on the blond-grey-brown wisps of hair currently under his nose, and he breathed in John’s scent, finding it soothing. A few minutes passed, and then John squirmed underneath him and leaned away slightly. He blinked up at Sherlock and smiled tiredly.

“Morning,” John whispered.

“Morning. Although it’s only just after six.”

“Really? Oh well…”

“Go back to sleep.”

John hummed and leaned upward, pressing his lips gently against Sherlock’s. Sherlock couldn’t resist and kissed him back, angling his head and parting his lips. John deepened the kiss with his tongue, and leaned back on his back, pulling Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock moaned and trailed his hands down John’s sides, finding his hands and pulling them for his head and pinning them against the pillow.

John swirled his tongue against Sherlock’s, both of them moaning and fully awake. John reached for the hem of Sherlock’s nightshirt and pulled it over his head. Sherlock did the same to John, and then laid against him, their bare chests pressed against each other. Sherlock rested one of his hands over John’s hip, and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled one of his legs over Sherlock’s, tangling themselves up in warmth.

Their kisses grew more heated, and pretty soon Sherlock and John had their pajamas and underpants off, their cocks hard with arousal.

“I need you…it feels like it’s been forever,” John breathed against Sherlock’s lips.

“It’s only been…nine hours,” Sherlock muttered against John’s neck as he trailed down to his chest.

“Really? So much as happened since.”

Memories of the past several hours flooded in Sherlock’s mind, and he crawled back up to face John.

“Are you all right since—so much has happened I didn’t really…”

John caressed Sherlock’s check with his thumb. “I’m all right. I barely remember what happened, and…it’s in the past. It’s over now.”

Sherlock still didn’t feel convinced, and his face must have showed it, for John leaned up against his elbows and kissed Sherlock deeply.

“I’m fine, really. Fine enough for a nice long shag with my fiancé.”

Sherlock half grimaced half blushed from the endearment. He kissed John back, and pushed him back against the pillow, wrapping his arms around his lower back. John lifted his hips, thrusting his cock lightly against Sherlock’s.

“Oh god, John...”

“I need you—want you to fuck me,” John gasped.

Sherlock looked up from John’s chest. “Really?”

John chuckled. “Yes really.”

“You haven’t done it in a while,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want it now.” John grinned, and Sherlock smiled back. He reached for the lube on the bedside table and applied a generous amount to his fingers. John spread his legs and lifted his hips as Sherlock slowly encircled his entrance before pushing one finger slowly in.

John let out a long moan and squirmed against Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock massaged the entrance before adding in a second finger. A gleam of sweat was shinning on John’s chest and forehead, his hair sticking to it.

“Oh, Sherlock, another one—.” John gasped and was cut off as Sherlock found his prostate.

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

Sherlock added a third finger and began opening John’s entrance. John moaned and after a minute or so, he reached towards Sherlock.

“I’m ready. Please…”

Sherlock removed his hand and then applied some lube to his hard aching cock, and then lined himself against John’s entrance. He rested his forehead against John’s, feeling his hot breath against his check. They met each other’s eyes, and John gave a sharp nod of confirmation. Sherlock leaned forward and slowly pushed through. John gasped sharply and wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s thighs, tightening his hold as Sherlock continued to enter him.

“Yes, god Sherlock, you feel amazing—.”

“So do you,” Sherlock gasped. Fully inside John, Sherlock paused and collected himself. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back and thrusted his hips upward, startling Sherlock.

“Impatient,” Sherlock snapped teasingly. John chuckled. Sherlock leaned forward and then slowly thrusted his hips. John gasped and met his thrusts with his hips, the sound of sweaty skin and throaty moans encasing the room.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock grunted. He snapped his hips, and hit John’s prostate. John arched his back and cried out.

“Sherlock! Oh fuck, yes! Fuck—.”

Sherlock picked up his speed, when his phone suddenly rang.

“Ignore it,” John immediately panted out. Sherlock did and continued to pick up his pace. He reached down between them and stroked John’s cock. John arched up against him again, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back. Sherlock wrapped his other arm underneath John’s and held him close, rubbing their chests together as they pushed against each other.

“I’m close,” John breathed. “I—.”

“Yes, John! That’s it—.” Sherlock gave him a long couple of strokes, and then John was coming. He moaned and gasped Sherlock’s name, and after a couple of snapping his hips, Sherlock followed with John’s name in his gasp.

They panted against each other as their orgasms slowly came to an end. John slowly released Sherlock’s back and resting his arms and legs back onto the mattress, going limp. Sherlock shuddered and pulled out. He reached for a cloth and wiped themselves down before climbing over John to his side of the bed and relaxing against the pillow. John turned to his side and snuggled against his chest; Sherlock pulled him closer, sighing contently and catching his breath.

Sherlock’s phone rang again, but he ignored it. He snuggled against John and was just starting to press chaste kisses against his neck, when it rang again. John groaned and started to reach for it when Sherlock took his hand away.

“Ignore it,” Sherlock sighed.

“It could be important.”

Before Sherlock could respond, it rang again. John tried to reach for it again, but Sherlock took his hand and held it away. John giggled as Sherlock climbed over him, pining his hands but his head.

“It’s not important,” Sherlock said as he started pressing kisses down John’s neck. He lazily started trailing his lips down his jaw and heading towards his chest, when his phone rang again, and then John pushed him away slightly, grinning.

“Just answer it.”

Sherlock groaned but reached for it anyway. Upon hearing Mycroft’s voice, he quickly put his dressing gown on and headed down the hall, ignoring John’s soft chuckling.

“What do you want Mycroft?”

“Hope I didn’t interrupt your early activities, Sherlock,” Mycroft said dismissively.

“You did.”

“Apologies,” he said lightly.

“Why are you calling?”

Mycroft hesitated, which automatically meant it wasn’t good.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

“Moran escaped. On the way to the embassy his car was rear ended, both U.S. agents were shot and killed.”

“I’d say we could assume it’s that mysterious boss of his.”

“Indeed.”

“What do we do from here?”

“There will be a security detail rotating around Baker Street until we catch him.” Sherlock looked out the window, instantly spotting the security getting into position. “I have every eye on this Sherlock, you don’t have to do—.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“John needs his rests. He’s been through a lot—.”

“I know what John’s been through! He’s fine. Just keep us updated Mycroft, we’ll come in, though not until later in the morning.”

Sherlock snapped his phone shut and clenched his fist around it. Gentle arms encircled his waist from behind, and John pressed his forehead against the space in between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed and paused. “Moran escaped.”

John stilled for a second before his embrace tightened. “Mycroft’s on it though, right?”

“He is, and wants us to come in later. He sent a team over to watch the street, in case he shows up here.”

“Well, if he was smart, he’d leave the country,” John suggested.

“Hm…” Sherlock trailed off. Whatever his body did, John must have noticed the shift and stepped in front of him, disrupting his view.

“What’s on your mind?”

Sherlock looked at him briefly before looking over his head. “Something about Moran seemed…off. Like he knew me…”

John furrowed his eyebrows in thought. “You’ve never met though.”

“I know. But it just seemed like he knew me, from a distance.”

“Well you are a famous detective,” John pointed out lightly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John laughed and stood on his toes, pressing a closed lip kiss against Sherlock’s.

“Let’s get back to bed.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And sleep?”

“Well I have other ideas on my mind.” John grinned, and Sherlock smiled back, leaning forward and kissing him deeply. John broke the kiss and stepped by him, heading back towards their bedroom. Sherlock took one last look out the window, and then followed him.

John disappeared through the door, when suddenly there was a quick zip sound, glass cracking, a cut off yelp and then a thump onto the carpet. Sherlock froze mid-step, heart picking up rapidly in his chest.

“John?” His voice was strained with worry and confusion, and his throat tightened as he walked down the hall. It seemed to take him a full minute to reach his bedroom doorway. John was lying on the floor on his side, struggling to sit up with one arm as he pressed his other hand to his right thigh. Blood was dripping onto the floor, the speed increasing slightly as the seconds ticked by.

Sherlock rushed forward and knelt down beside him. He quickly took his belt off of his dressing gown and started tying it above wound. John groaned and pressed his forehead against the side of the bed.

“John we should—you need a hospital. I’ll call Mycroft—.”

“Ok, ok, just—.”

There was another gunshot, and it grazed the top of the bed, only a few inches from John’s head.

“Shit—,” John gasped as he lowered his head. Sherlock reached for him and pulled him out of the view of the window; he wrapped his arm around his waist and lifted him upwards.

“Lean on me, can you—.”

“Yes. We need to get out of here.”

“We need a car—.”

“We’ll get a cab—.”

“And risk other lives John? Surely you would be against that?”

John chuckled but then cut it off, grimacing in pain. They limped down the hallway, but then John pulled him back, and entered the bathroom, limping on one foot before collapsing onto the toilet seat.

“I need a shirt, and you need one too. And pants and shoes.”

“We don’t have time John—.”

John held up a hand. “Call Mycroft. Get me my gun, a jumper—.”

“Fine.” Sherlock hurried to their bedroom. He crawled past the window and grabbed the closest clothing items before going into the bedside table drawer on John’s side. He grabbed the gun and then hurried into the bathroom.

“Here,” Sherlock said and handed John a stripped jumper. John quickly dressed as Sherlock put his trousers and shirt on, and then headed to the sitting room. He put his shoes on, grabbed his coat and went back to John.

John had ripped his pajama bottoms and was applying a layer of gauze over the wound and on the back on his thigh, tapping it to his skin.

“It’s just a through-and-through, so I may not need surgery,” John reported. Sherlock only hummed and took his phone and sent a text, immediately getting a response from Mycroft. He then grabbed the gun from the counter and handed it to John, but John shook his head.

“You take it. I’ll just take a knife—.”

“You have no way of holding it. And you wouldn’t be able to run fast enough from a gun, so it makes sense for you to have it.” Sherlock said as if it were obvious.

“But I have no way of holding it—.”

“Just put it between your waistband.”

“I’m wearing pajamas, Sherlock. They’re not thick enough, and I wouldn’t be able to put jeans on.”

Sherlock looked at him, relaxing his shoulders with defeat. “Fine, I’ll hold it, but leave the knife here. There’s no point in taking one.”

John nodded, and reached forward and took Sherlock’s hand. He squeezed it briefly and softened his face. “It’ll be all right.”

Sherlock looked at him and nodded. He leaned down and pressed their lips together briefly before leaning back and helping John stand up. He wrapped an arm around his waist and John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock took hold of his hand there to keep him upright.

“The car should be here within the next couple of minutes. It’ll take us to MI6.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be walking fast down the stairs, are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

They looked at each other and nodded, and then together headed down the hallway, speeding up and reaching the stairs. Sherlock nearly carried John down rather than helped him walk, and upon reaching the landing, John groaned and leaned heavily against Sherlock.

“The movement is making it bleed more…” he noticed.

Sherlock tightened his hold around his waist and helped him into a standing position. “Let’s go.”

They went up to the door, and paused. Sherlock pulled out his phone, and once he received a text from Mycroft, he opened the door and hurried the car currently pulling up to the curb.

Sherlock helped John inside and then followed, closing the door just as a couple of bullets grazed the roof.

“Go!”

The car sped up and turned the corner sharply. Sherlock pressed up against John, causing him to whimper.

“Sorry—.”

“It’s fine.” John sat up in his seat and leaned against Sherlock’s side. Sherlock noticed he was growing paler and starting to sweat.

“It’ll be all right, John,” Sherlock murmured. John only nodded and took his hand in his, lacing their fingers together. John rubbed the ring on Sherlock’s finger; Sherlock figured it was a calming act, and didn’t move away.

The car came to an abrupt halt; Sherlock looked towards the front and saw a black van blocking their way. John tensed beside him, and started reaching for his gun from Sherlock’s pocket. The driver honked the horn, but instead of moving, the van’s doors opened, and a group of five masked men exited it, some holding large guns and pointing it at the car.

Sherlock clenched his fist around John’s hand, but before he could say anything, the side doors were opened and both of them pulled out roughly. Sherlock heard John gasp from the movement, yet fortunately was brought to him and placed on his knees beside him.

“Mycroft will help us,” Sherlock said.

“I hope this is the last time when I actually want your brother’s interference.” John grimaced as his hands were pulled behind his back and handcuffed. Sherlock’s were as well, and then they were lifted into the van. Sherlock vaguely heard gunshots from behind, and then the door closed and it was pitch black. John’s breathing was ragged, and then heard him muffle and then go still.

“John?”

There was a thin prick on his neck, and then he was loosing consciousness as the truck started driving away.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock groaned as his surroundings began coming back to him. He opened his eyes and blinked away the bleariness. He was in a square room that had been an office. There was a desk and a chair in the corner beside him, a filing cabinet on the other side of the wall, and a coat hanger by the door, which was in front of him. He shifted, only to find his hands were handcuffed behind his back. He looked around and spotted John by the cabinet, still unconscious but starting to fidget, and had his hands tied behind his back as well.

“John.”

John shifted again and muttered incoherently. Sherlock repeated his name twice before John finally blinked at him. He focused on him for a moment, and then looked around.

“Well at least we’re together,” John offered lightly, despite the situation.

Sherlock hummed in response.

“Any ideas? I think it’s safe to say it’s probably got to do with Moran.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

John shifted up to a higher sitting position and winced from the movement. Sherlock glanced at his leg, finding the gauze stained with dry blood.

“Has it stopped bleeding?”

“I think so,” John said. “The tourniquet’s not too tight so there’s still blood flow, but if I start walking it’ll start bleeding again. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Sherlock thought, but wasn’t certain. “After seven, it maybe just before eight or after. I don’t know how long we were out of it for.”

John nodded in comprehending, but his face was conflicted with something. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows.

“What is it John?”

John hesitated, and then sighed. “The longer we’re here, the—well, the risk of infection would increase. I’m already feeling lightheaded—.”

“Could be whatever they knocked us out with,” Sherlock offered.

John smiled sadly. “You’ll get us out of here. I trust you.”

Hearing those words from John wrenched at Sherlock; he knew that John trusted him of course, but hearing him say it was rare. He looked around for anything he could use to free them, but breaking metal cuffs were nearly impossible.

He was certain he had something in his pocket that would unlock the cuffs; it was just a matter of getting them out. Sitting forward on his knees, Sherlock twisted his arms and grabbed the thick material of his coat. He lifted his coat up, bunching it up on his back until he was able to pull his pocket to his hand. He arched backwards slightly, straightening his wrists and arms but didn’t let go.

Grasping a thin piece of a hairpin, he relaxed his arms and allowed the coat to fall back in place. He twisted the pin and slotted it into the lock, and after a few tries, it clicked open.

Sighing with triumph and scooted closer to John.

“Can you lean forward?”

John did, however with a grimace. Sherlock reached behind him and unlocked him with ease, and then pulled the handcuffs off and tossed them aside.

Sherlock stood up and helped John into a standing position. John leaned heavily against the wall, his breathing still ragged. His forehead was shiny with sweat, and his legs trembled beneath him. Sherlock stepped forward and rested his forehead against John’s. John’s was noticeably warmer than his, and the sweat was cool. Sherlock wiped his forehead and then kissed him gently on the lips.

“I won’t leave you here,” Sherlock whispered.

John sighed. “I know you won’t. Doesn’t mean you should though.”

“They took your gun, so we’re unarmed—.”

John raised his head. “No, they didn’t. You left it in the car. I saw it on the seat, so it must have fallen out or something…”

Sherlock sighed. “Still doesn’t help us.”

John shook his head in defeat. “Guess not.”

Abruptly, the door opened, and Sherlock straightened up, unconsciously taking a step forward in front of John. The man stepped in and closed the door. John gasped and Sherlock tensed as he saw his face.

The man was wearing a ski mask, and was armed with a rifle and two handguns hung on his hips. He was wearing all black, and his shoes—Sherlock furrowed his brows. He had seen those shoes before.

“Bauer?” Sherlock said impassively.

The man took the mask off, and Jack was there, looking at them.

“It’s a mess to explain, but I’m undercover to Moran. He thinks he helped me escape from going back to the states even though my name’s been cleared. He assumed my loyalty is to him, but it never has been. Here,” Jack handed Sherlock one of his handguns, and then headed back to the door.

“I’ll do what it takes to get you out of here. But if we cross paths, follow my lead.” He waited, and then Sherlock and John nodded. He nodded back, and then opened the door.

“Wait,” John called back. Jack turned to him.

“Are there others wearing a mask like that?”

“Everyone is, except Moran. There are some wearing a face mask, so they all look like John.”

“Great,” John sighed.

“Was Stan rescued as well?” Sherlock asked.

“Moran’s through with him. And Mary. He’s in it for something else.”

Sherlock and John both furrowed their brows in confusion. “What else?”

Jack shrugged. “He never said, though I suspect it’s for the boss he keeps mentioning.”

“What time is it?” John asked.

Jack checked his watch. “7:56.”

John nodded, and then Jack left, putting the ski mask back on as he did so. John sighed and relaxed slightly. “Well that was convenient.”

“Very…” Sherlock checked the gun and found it fully loaded. “Come on, then.”

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s waist and John held onto him around his neck, holding his leg up slightly as he hobbled by his side. Sherlock cautiously looked out the door, and seeing the hallway was empty, he and John slowly walked out of the room, heading towards where Jack had left.

They slowly walked down the hall and then paused. Sherlock peeked around the corner and found it empty also. He and John made their way down, their senses on alert for any sudden noise.

“So Moran,” John whispered. “He must have had this planned.”

“Most likely,” Sherlock responded quietly.

“Mary warned him,” John stated.

Sherlock tightened his hold on John. “That seems like the most plausible reason.”

John turned his head to look at him briefly. “It’s not your fault. You and Mycroft made a call, and it would have worked, but it didn’t. Just… don’t beat yourself up too much.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but relaxed his grip and continued walking down the hall, holding the gun steady in his free hand.

John grunted and his step faulted.

“All right?” Sherlock asked.

“Fine,” John grimaced. “We’re going really slow, Sherlock—.”

“No.” Sherlock attempted to continue walking, but John held his stance, however uneven, and didn’t follow Sherlock. Sherlock turned around, his face serious and his eyes hardening with a glare. “I’m not leaving you, John. That’s not something I’m even going to consider.”

John tilted his head up and clenched his jaw. “Just leave me—I’ll stay in a closet or something, and you go and get help.”

Sherlock swallowed tightly and shuffled his feet. John sighed heavily.

“We weren’t going to escape were we?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Jesus—Sherlock,” John rasped. “You can confront Moran later, once he’s arrested. We need to let Mycroft know we’re here.

“Mycroft already knows—.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, and John scoffed. “You’re not, you’re not sure. You’re hoping he’s coming, but Sherlock, how can he possible know our locations? He may know we’ve been kidnapped—.”

“Jack. He would have made some kind of contact with MI6.”

“Okay, but even he did, we need to get out of here. We don’t know what Moran will do—.”

“No, but you’re about to find out,” a voice spoke up from behind them.

Sherlock and John turned around tensely to see Moran standing at the far end of the hallway. Two men stood on either side of him, both wearing ski masks.

“What do you want with us?”

Moran grinned. “Well, first, let’s reunite you with John.”

The two furrowed their brows and looked at each other; John tightened his hand on Sherlock’s arm.

Moran laughed. “It’s a great invention, can cause confusion and conflicted feelings. Something my boss was looking forward to using, sadly through, he never got the chance.”

“What happened him?”

“Killed himself.”

“Is that why you’re doing all this? To avenge his self-inflicted death?”

Moran didn’t respond and walked towards them. He stopped halfway, and with a wave of his hand, the two men lunged forward and parted the too, holding them still by the elbows.

John grunted with pain and nearly lost his footing. Sherlock stood straight yet tense, glaring at Moran.

“You’re coming with me. John will be pleased to see you.”

“John’s right here.”

“No he isn’t.”

“You won’t convince me. I know John Watson.”

Moran smirked, and then gave a nod. The man holding Sherlock began pulling to follow Moran, and out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John being taken in the opposite direction.

Moran led him to the upper floor, a large one-room space with columns spread out. In the center were five men, and the man who had taken John was standing behind them. Sherlock inhaled sharply as he was brought in front of them. All men had their hands tied behind their back, and each had a bullet wound to the thigh. They all looked like John Watson, their hair the same shades of brown and blond with wisps of grey in the front and on the sides. Their eyes were lowered except a few looked up at him, their eyes glistening with plea.

Sherlock stood in front of them and observed each one. The one of the far left was wearing a white tank, the second wearing the exact jumper John had been wearing, and the third was wearing an oatmeal jumper—the one John had been wearing when he escaped the warrant. It was the exact one; Sherlock would know it anywhere. The other two were wearing similar striped jumpers, but still different.

“Well,” Moran started. “Shall we begin?”

“Begin what? John’s not here.”

Moran smirked and waved his hand. The man who had taken John knelt down by the second lookalike and pulled his hair, tilting his head back and exposing his neck. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease. He was sure the man wasn’t John, but seeing his face express that kind of pain and begging, his eyes only saw his John.

Moran stepped behind the man and pulled the ski mask over his face. Sherlock remained impassive to the sight of Bauer.

“Hold him still,” Moran demanded. He walked around and stood in front of the man. He pulled out a knife and swiftly plunged it through the man’s injured thigh. The man yelped and contorted his face in agonizing pain. Sherlock clenched his jaw and glared at Moran.

“It’s not John.”

Moran furrowed his eyebrows lightly. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. None of them are.”

“Prove it. From what I hear, Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to show off.”

Sherlock straightened up and looked at the first one. “The one on the left doesn’t have a scar on his shoulder. The vest would cover it, but the edges sprawl outwards to his shoulder and arm, and it would show. That man’s arm doesn’t have scar, clear as day.”

Moran raised his eyebrows. “Well then lets see, shall we?” He motioned for the other man, who then took off his own mask, but Sherlock didn’t recognize him. He went up behind the lookalike on the far end, pulled out his gun, and pulled the trigger.

Sherlock flinched much to his dismay, and watched as the man who looked like his lover collapsed forward, dead. Moran knelt down and pulled his hair hard. The mask slipped off easily, revealing an unknown man.

“One of mine. He’s not an innocent,” Moran claimed. He walked around and stood behind the remaining four. “So what about the one with the striped jumper?”

Sherlock collected himself and stepped forward. The man looked up at him (his head was still being held back by Jack) and he let out a throaty hum. Sherlock raised his hand and paused.

“May I?”

Moran nodded. “Go ahead.”

Sherlock reached for the man’s collar and pulled it down his left shoulder, and found the skin revealing an identical scar to the one John had. Stunned, Sherlock shuffled a step back and looked at the man. He was the closest of them all, but something wasn’t right.

“Why don’t we save him for last, shall we?” Moran suggested. Sherlock didn’t like the sound of that, but nodded. Moran pointed to the man on the far right, also wearing a striped jumper, but it was different. Sherlock looked over him, and relaxed slightly.

“His wig’s about to fall off.”

Moran stepped forward, raised his own gun to the man’s head, and pulled the trigger. Sherlock didn’t flinch as the man fell forward limp.

“Three left,” Moran stated.

“What’s the point of this?” Sherlock asked.

Moran looked at him as he reclaimed his spot behind the men and shrugged. “Just trying to have some fun.”

Sherlock snapped his head up and narrowed his eyes. _That phrase…_ He had heard those words before.

“Say that again,” Sherlock said slowly.

“Why?” Moran didn’t seem phased. “Sound familiar?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “You—he—.”

“You’re not going to stutter are you?” Moran commented with annoyance. “Tick tock Holmes. I don’t have all day.”

Sherlock straightened up and clenched his fists. “You worked for Moriarty.”

Moran’s eyes gleamed, and he smirked. “Took you long enough to figure that out.”

“But why—?”

“Why I managed to hide under your brother’s radar? Simple, covered my tracks. No one knew who I was when I showed up, which was rare anyway. Moriarty and I spoke through others, and I’ve only met him a handful of times.”

“Then why continue his plan? Why not just stay hidden?”

A flicker ran across Moran’s gaze, and his cheeks deepened.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh. You and him were—.”

“This isn’t any of your business—,” Moran started weakly, his former confidence evaporating.

“It is my business because you have John!” Sherlock snapped at him. “Moriarty was done with! We were done with him, and we were done with this case, and you go and shoot him! I know it was you! You shot O’Brian—sniper skills et cetera. If John had died, I swear you’d be dead by now!” Sherlock huffed and took a step back, realizing he had nearly lunged at Moran. Moran’s confident posture was returning, as was his smirk.

“So what about this one?” Moran nodded to the man wearing a striped sweater like the dead man next to him. He glanced up at Sherlock and then looked away.

“It’s not him. He won’t even look at me.”

Moran shot him, and then pulled off his mask. It wasn’t John. Sherlock inhaled deeply, attempting to calm his unease.

“How about,” Moran started slowly and stepped to the one with the oatmeal jumper. “This one?”

Sherlock looked at him, and he looked back. The man next to him with the knife in his thigh turned his head to Sherlock and hummed again. Sherlock reached forward and pulled the jumper down. There was scar. Sherlock looked at him closely. His face was identical to John’s—it was nearly impossible to tell what the skin was made of, which was quite clever, despite the circumstances. His nose was the correct width, his eyelashes the same length and shade of blond. His eyes were—

_Contacts._

Sherlock sighed and took a step back. “It’s not him.”

Moran stepped forward and shot the man. He fell forward dead. Sherlock began to take a step back when Moran stopped him.

“Check it.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and knelt down. The man’s hair was matted with blood, which was already encircling his head and towards Sherlock’s shoes. He grabbed the hair and pulled. It didn’t budge, and he pulled again, banishing his doubt to the back of his head.

After another pull, the mask slipped off, revealing another unknown man.

Sighing, Sherlock stood up and tossed the mask to the ground. He looked at the remaining man, who was looking at him; his head free from Jack’s grip. Sherlock examined every inch of him. He looked closely, and found the man wasn’t wearing any contacts. He had a scar, was shot in the thigh, and was wearing the same jumper and pajamas as John was—but the brand was a common one. The others were wearing the same kind too.

Sherlock looked at Moran briefly before walking in a circle around the lookalike. He was John, but then again, he wasn’t. It seemed too simple. He walked to the front, and looked at him from head to toe. His hair looked real, and not like an ordinary wig; the jumper was the exact same, as were the pants. The wound was in the same spot, tied off with a—

_A brown belt._

Sherlock swallowed tightly and took a step back. He had tied John’s wound with his dressing gown’s belt, blue and last time he had seen him, it was nearly black from the blood.

“It’s not John,” Sherlock said quietly.

Moran straightened up. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then why don’t you do the honors?” Moran stretched out his hand with the gun. Sherlock looked at it and reluctantly took it. He looked at Jack then the other man.

“Don’t try bother shooting me, these men will injure you before you could even aim.”

“Injure? Not kill me?”

“They won’t kill you. I’ll be doing that, before the hour’s up. So you have,” Moran looked at his watch. “Half an hour.”

Sherlock glanced down at the man and raised the gun. He held it as steady as he could, but his hand still shook minutely. He looked over his body, his face, but all he saw was John.

 _The tourniquet could have switched to a belt_ , he thought. _It could…_

Sherlock widened his eyes, searching frantically for a sign this was or wasn’t John. There has to be—

A gunshot rang in the air, and the man in front of Sherlock collapsed to the ground, and laid still. Sherlock looked up to Moran, who had another gun, and was handing it back to Jack.

“You took to long.”

“I had doubted—why would you—.” Sherlock looked at the body. He pushed him onto his back and stared at him. It was John—was it? He wanted to kneel to get a closer look, but couldn’t seem to move.

“Why would—,” Sherlock’s voice shook and he clenched his jaw. Jack cleared his throat, catching his attention. Sherlock looked up and saw Moran whispering to the other man. Sherlock still had the gun in his hand, and he raised it, aiming at them. He pulled the trigger, and the man fell onto his side with a yelp, his hand clutching his side. Moran turned to Sherlock and raised his hands slowly.

“Come now, we just started to play.” He was calm, but Sherlock could tell he was hiding his loss of control deep down. Moran looked at Jack. “Do something.”

“You should be careful who you trust, Moran,” Jack said gravely. Moran widened his eyes and then glared at him with narrowed eyes.

“I’m done playing this game,” Sherlock said fiercely, bringing Moran’s attention back to him, and then pulled the trigger. Moran fell to the ground, blood already oozing out of his forehead.

Sherlock slowly lowered the gun and stood still in a daze. He could feel Jack moving beside him, reaching for a radio or phone, and talking to someone on the other line. After what felt like several minutes, he dropped the gun and looked at the body beside him.

“Sherlock—Sherlock!” Jack shook his shoulder, and he looked up. “There are other men here working for Moran. MI6 are on their way, and will be here any minute. Most of the men would be apprehended, but some took Moran’s plan to heart and may likely kill you. They’ll be wearing masks to trick you…”

Sherlock lowered his head to the body. Jack remained where he was and then inhaled sharply. He knelt down and rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It’s not him.”

Sherlock tensed up and slowly looked at him. “There isn’t a mask—.”

“No, there is.” Jack reached forward to the man’s hairline and pulled; the mask didn’t go over his head, and peeled back like a second face. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he let out a shaky breath.

“The wound wasn’t tied by a belt—it was—.”

“I hid John on my way up here. This is one of Moran’s men, and I took him hostage. Moran thought it was John too.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows, unaccustomed to be wrong. He looked over the facts again, and then sighed. “The gunshot wound is fresh.”

Jack offered a light chuckle. “The wound is fresh. And his jaw was broken, which was why he was humming and moaning.”

Sherlock swiftly stood up, and Jack mirrored his movements. “So John’s still here.”

“He should be where I left him. He could have been found, but I gave him a gun, so…”

Sherlock took the gun he had dropped and turned to Jack. “Lead the way.”

He followed Jack to the lower level and to a different hallway. The floor was carpet, and there were doors on both sides. Jack was a step ahead, holding his gun at the ready, while Sherlock followed him. They reached the corner and turned, only to see a man with a gun walking their way, wearing a mask. Sherlock immediately knew it wasn’t John, because he was walking steadily.

Jack turned the corner and fired his gun. He continued to walk past him, and Sherlock followed suit, keeping his gun ready. Voices emerged from the corner just as they reached it, and they nearly collided into a group of three, all wearing masks of John’s face. Jack took one out by hand and was tackled by another. Sherlock was pushed to ground, and the third stood over him, his expression something John would never wear.

Sherlock kicked him in the shins and knocked him down. He reached for his gun and knocked the man out. Yells echoed from one end, and Sherlock scrambled up.

“Go Sherlock! Find John!”

“What about—.”

“I’ll be fine!”

Jack began firing at the others, and spun into some kind of action hero dance, knocking them to the ground one by one. Sherlock turned on his heal and began to run the opposite direction. He heard orders from one behind him, and heard a helicopter overhead. Mycroft had arrived!

Sherlock hurried down the hall, and turned a corner, only to stop his tracks. There were a couple of men lying on the far end, and someone was limping towards him, carrying a gun in one hand and leaning heavily on the other against the wall. He was shirtless and covered with sweat and blood. Sherlock raised his hand and aimed it at the man as he slowly stepped closer.

As the man came closer, he relaxed he spoke with relief. “Oh, Sherlock, thank god—.”

“Don’t move,” Sherlock snapped impassively, ignoring the emotional storm going on his head.

The man—or John—ignored him, or didn’t seem to have heard him, and continued limping towards him.

“I said don’t—.” Sherlock steadied his grip.

“Sherlock, do you have any idea how happy I am to see you?” The man grinned slightly, but then his smile fell when Sherlock didn’t lower the gun. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked at him closely. He wasn’t wearing a shirt—that explained the imposter with his jumper. His pajamas were ripped over the wound and his thigh was tied with a tourniquet—his dressing gown’s belt.

Relief flooded his mind, blurring his vision. He barely saw John move, but the next thing Sherlock processed were arms wrapping around his back and holding him tightly. Sherlock swayed and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his sight. He felt John’s breath against his neck, and inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent, the scent of home.

Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders. He buried his nose in the crook of John’s neck and breathed in again, the exhaustion of the past twenty hours finally showing its toll.

“John—.”

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Sherlock clutched at John’s back and held him tightly. He let out a shuddering breath and bathed in the affection John was pressing to his temple with his lips. He raised his head slightly and met John’s eyes. His eyes were very similar to the man he had thought was John, but they were different in design. Dark blue surrounded the outer circle with jagged lines of green spread out from the pupils like a sun. Basking in the confirmation that this was really John, Sherlock reached for John’s lips with a desperate kiss. John cupped his jaw firmly and held him in place as they kissed, sucking on each other’s tongue and lips.

Someone cleared their throat, and Sherlock and John broke apart to see Jack looking down at them.

“It’s all clear. Mycroft’s outside.”

Sherlock stood up, not realizing till now that he and John had been embracing on their knees. He helped John up and wrapped his arm around his waist tightly. John leaned against him, wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s waist as well. They silently followed Jack to the first floor, and upon walking outside; they were greeted with morning sunlight.

Mycroft immediately laid eyes on them and walked up to them. “Sherlock, John,” he greeted calmly. “There’s an ambulance if you want to get checked up.”

“John needs his leg looked at,” Sherlock said. John looked at him.

“You don’t have any—.”

“No.”

John furrowed his eyebrows slightly. “Moran didn’t torture you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not physically,” he murmured.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Moran’s body’s been recovered, as were his associates.”

“Is there any physical evidence of his connection to Moriarty?” Sherlock asked. He felt John tense beside him, and pressed his hand on his waist, assuring him he will explain later.

Mycroft sighed. “I’ll have people look into it, but if we didn’t come up with anything before, it’s unlikely we will even if he’s dead.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Holmes?”

Mycroft turned and saw Jack coming up to the three of them.

“I just wanted to thank you, for your hardwork with this crisis. I’m sure my government will be pleased.”

“Well it’d be nice to meet some who haven’t committed treason,” Mycroft said sternly. To his dismay, Jack chuckled.

“Quite right.” He shook his hand, and then turned to John, stretching out his hand.

“It was nice to see you again, John. I remember you were the best doctor back in Kandahar.”

“Yes, well, thank you. And thank you, for…coming back.” John grinned at him warmly and shook his hand. Jack turned Sherlock and reached for his hand. Sherlock shook it quickly and then let go.

“Hopefully we won’t see each other again,” Jack said.

Sherlock grinned slightly. “Indeed. Thank you for…” he trailed off, and glanced at John before meeting Jack’s eye. “Everything.”

Jack nodded knowingly and gave them a final nod before turning around and heading to a waiting car. Mycroft stepped away to Anthea, and John turned to Sherlock, his eyes softening with fondness.

“All right?”

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips against his temple before guiding him to the ambulance. “I am.”

John hobbled into the ambulance and laid down, exhaustion finally catching up to him. Sherlock took a seat beside him and took his hand as the medic began examining his wound on his thigh.

“It’s a through-and-through, so you probably won’t need surgery. But you do need to go to the hospital.”

They closed the doors and were off immediately. John refused to have any painkillers during the ride, and lowered his gaze to their interlocked hands. He furrowed his brow after a moment, and slowly looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look. “What?”

“I just realized that I’m actually really hungry.”

A grin tugged at Sherlock’s lips. “I’ll get you something at the hospital. You won’t need surgery, so it should be fine.”

“You’ll eat too.” Sherlock nodded, even though he knew it wasn’t a question. John squeezed his hand and grinned.

“I don’t suppose they make omelets.”

Sherlock giggled lightly and quickly John joined in, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Seriously though,” John said as the laughter settled down. “What time is it? I should have brought my watch.”

“You were busy snogging me and then getting shot,” Sherlock pointed out lightly. John giggled and reached for Sherlock’s arm, only to stop halfway realizing he had taken his off earlier as well. He looked at the medic, who looked at her own watch.

“9:02.”

John scoffed lightly. “And yesterday we where safe in our beds.”

“And you weren’t wanted for treason.”

John giggled again and ran a hand over his face. “At least one thing went accordingly.”

“And what was that?”

“I proposed.” He looked at Sherlock and grinned as a blush rose on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“You did. Perhaps I should reconsider my answer. The adrenaline must have clouded my judgment,” he teased with a smirk.

John swatted at him playfully. “No you won’t, you git.”

Sherlock chuckled and leaned forward until he was able to graze John’s nose with his. John smiled and met his lips, kissing chastely. Sherlock pulled back a breath away and softened his face. “I’d never reconsider you John.”

John softened his face and ran a hand down Sherlock’s check. “I know.”

“And I’d never doubt you. I did have some in the past day, but I don’t think I would have ever believed it in the long run.”

John kissed him again, and pulled back before Sherlock could part his lips. “I know you wouldn’t. I trust you with my life, Sherlock. Which is why I plan to spend the rest of it with you. All of it.”

Sherlock smiled softly and kissed him back, parting his lips instantly and welcoming John’s tongue in. They kissed for several moments and reluctantly parted as the ambulance came to a slow halt.

*         *         *

It only took forty minutes for John to be checked up on and cleared from any surgery, no doubt due to Mycroft’s aid. John shifted his legs over the side of the bed and reached for the crutches. He was going to have to take antibiotics for a few weeks, but the doctors were optimistic he hadn’t developed any infection. They had issued him an undershirt and fresh pajamas, and bandaged half his thigh. He hobbled towards Sherlock at the front desk, who turned to him and kissed him.

John hummed softly but pulled back reluctantly. “Okay, it’s officially been more than twelve hours since I’ve eaten. I need food now, and so do you.”

“You sure you want to go out in pajamas? And shouldn’t you rest?”

John laughed softly and shook his head. “I should, but I think I’ll pass out from starvation first before exhaustion. Lead the way.”

Sherlock grinned and kissed him again. They left the hospital and quickly called a cab.

“We’ll go to Baker Street. That way you can eat and then rest.”

“Since when do you try to hard to get me to rest? You aren’t planning to go off on another case are you?” John said teasingly.

Sherlock scoffed lightly. “Of course not.” He offered a small grin, but it was strained very slightly, enough for John to notice.

“Sherlock?” he said, dropping the light tone he had had for the past hour.

Sherlock took his hand but didn’t respond.

“Sherlock?” John’s tone rose with urgency, but was still calm and gentle.

“Two hours ago, we were being held kidnapped. One and a half hour ago I was forced to figure out if some men wearing masks were you or not, and then watch them being killed. I—.”

John scooted closer to him and wrapped his arm around his shoulders. Sherlock sagged against him and leaned his head against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered.

Sherlock tried to sit back up but John kept him still. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I know, but I’m sorry you had to go through all that. When we get home, you’re going to eat and then rest with me, no questions.”

Sherlock sighed and relaxed. “Yes Captain.”

John sighed half irritated and half amused. “And don’t even try arousing me. I think I’m too exhausted for that.”

“Too exhausted to try to flip an omelet?”

“Shut up.”

The cab pulled up to their street, and they climbed out and headed to the front door. John nudged him for his attention, and Sherlock looked at him. John stretched his neck up, unable to stand on his toes without falling over. Sherlock gave him a small smile and then kissed him, parting John’s lips and tasting his mouth. In the distance, the clock tower chimed ten times, echoing across the city as birds chirped the beginning of a new day.

9:59:57 AM

9:59:58 AM

9:59:59 AM

10:00:00 AM

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Comments make my day and encourage me to keep on writing, so please tell me how you liked this story. The cliffhangers, the plot twists, everything! :) If you want to contact me, message me on tumblr: maeerin.tumblr.com
> 
> Subscribe to my account for more angst! There will be more coming soon :)
> 
> If this gets enough hits/kudos/comments, I could bring this universe back with new characters and a whole new day/crisis, but that won't be for several months if ever.

**Author's Note:**

> That's the first chapter. Leave a comment or so, it always makes my day and encourages me to continue. I'm on the last chapter, so I'll update in a few days or so and go on from there. 
> 
> I had written most of this chapter back in September and that was before I found out omelets were more of an American thing. *shrugs*
> 
> In 24, rarely do the bombs have an off switch, so I just went along with it, I think it's just an American assumption and makes it more dramatic.


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